


Death by Betrayal

by CodexOmicron



Series: Now You Feel Like Number None [3]
Category: Bleach
Genre: F/F, Female Protagonist, Fights, Nuclear Moth Incoming, Queer Themes, Romance, Silent Protagonist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-05-09
Packaged: 2020-02-29 02:04:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18768949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodexOmicron/pseuds/CodexOmicron
Summary: Cirucci, the Thunder-Witch, has reclaimed her position among the Espada, and Nemo Elcorbuzier now stands besides her as her Fraccion and lover. You thought with this position might come safety, but instead there is more danger. The Winter War grows ever closer, a boy named Kurosaki has drawn Aizen's interest, and new duties are foisted upon you......and then that asshole Luppi shows up and everything goes sideways.You just can't catch a break, can you?





	1. Morning

  
It’s sunlight that wakes you, a tickle through your closed eyes. You groan and stir in your sleep, which prompts a distant chuckle; you blink your eyes open and sit up. The curtains have been pulled, bringing light back into the room, and you’re blinded at first.  
  
You do a small take when you realize that this is not your bed, or your room. You are in a larger room, one with saner proportions, surrounded by soft-edged furniture and outdated uniforms hanging from the walls. The events of last night come rushing back. You blush, pulling the blankets to you, and look towards the painfully bright window. Cirucci is standing there, arms folded, a smirk on her face, imposing even though her uniform is ruined.  
  
“Well, then?” She simply asks, and you hastily reach to the jacket laying next to the bed to put it on.  
  
“I have much to do today,” Cirucci says, turning her back to you and staring at the window. “I must attend Aizen’s court and be officially reinstated. I must learn the standing orders of the Espada and know if I am to be sent on a mission. And, of course, I must arrange for a change in my living arrangements - I refuse to stay in this fort any longer, it’s as good as exile. And besides, the pillar room has been thoroughly ruined. I need a place more fitting of my renewed station.”  
  
You slide out of the bed (unlike the one in your room, it is not a thick mattress on the ground, but one with an actual frame, elegantly decorated with butterfly patterns). You stand up, looking at your…  
  
You don’t know what the right word is anymore. “Mistress” is a strange word to use now, although it likely still applies. But the others are daunting.  
  
You stare at Cirucci, and she finally turns to you, nodding. She holds her left arm close to her chest; it is covered in bandages, and you see the stitches on her brow, the pink patches of recent burns on her cheeks and neck.  
  
“Good. Now first, we will head for the palace…”  
  
You take a step towards her, and squeeze her bandaged arm. She starts, letting out a small but undignified shout, and looks at you with outrage.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
You step back again, staring intently at the arm, then at her face - not her eyes, but around, at the evidence of battle. She frowns.  
  
“You already did a fine job, and I have no time to waste.”  
  
You cock an eyebrow as you look at your own barely passable work.  
  
“What’s that insolent look?” She seethes, but you don’t let it deter you. You know you’re not being insolent - you are using Glare Seventeen, “respectful but firm insistence.” She taught it to you herself.  
  
“Fine!” She bursts out, then sighs and recomposes her expression into one of dismissive resignation. “It won’t be of any help, but I suppose I should look my best when meeting my old and new kindred. I won’t have them think of me as some lame dog.”  
  
You bow deeply in thanks, and turn to leave the room.  
  
“Wait,” she says imperiously, and you stop. She takes your wrist as you turn to her, pulls you closer, and-  
  
The kiss surprises you. Soft, yet firm, but these words fail to render how it feels. Your heart quickens two paces. But she taught you dignity in all things, and you do not let yourself be shocked; you return it.  
  
After all, it is as pleasant to you as it seems to her.  
  
When she pulls back, Cirucci is smirking.  
  
“Don’t get too cocky with me now, dear,” she says mockingly, and walks ahead of you out of the room. You hurry after her.  
  


  
***

  
When Esmeralda sees you enter her office, she starts visibly, eyes wide with surprise.  
  
Cirucci steps in first, her bearing as regal as she can manage with her injuries. You follow in after her, holding in your arms a bundle of cloth - your Gillian scarf, a tiny sleeping thing within.  
  
Esmeralda snaps into a bow, making Cirucci smirk. The medic looks at you, relief on her face.  
  
“You’re alive! I’m sorry, they’d told me, but I was afraid-”  
  
“Are you saying a rough beast like Yammy could put me down?” Cirucci says loftily. Esmeralda bows again.  
  
“No, of course, Privar- I mean, Decima. Your victory was well-earned.”  
  
“Good,” Cirucci says, but as you step closer you can feel the weakness in her posture, the shaking of her limbs which she tries to hide. You give Esmeralda a look, and you see silent acknowledgement in her eyes.  
  
“Please, Decima,” she says, “let me tend to your wounds.”  
  
“It’s nothing much,” Cirucci shrugs. “My Fraccion tended to them already. I am sure there’s no need for extensive work.”  
  
The word - ‘Fraccion’ - you’ve only heard it once before applied to you, last night. It sends a strange feeling through you, a kind of wonder and contentment. You smile and nod to Esmeralda, and you see her face change. Like when you came to her with your lungs charred from the inside - no longer a meek Numero, but a healer in her office, with a reluctant patient in front of her.  
  
“Please,” she says, “sit.” She motions to the table where she gutted you open. “Even if these are superficial wounds, I must tend to you. It is my job, you understand.”  
  
There is an instant of silent confrontation, pride against professionalism, then Cirucci sits down onto the table. Esmeralda approaches, grabbing a white bowl filled with strange implements, then a couple of jars from her shelves.  
  
She tears open the bandage you put around Cirucci’s left arm, and to her credit your mistress does not wince. She looks as stoic as someone who genuinely was not hurt. Esmeralda rubs strange pastes on her bruises, pulls thread out of the stitches you so carefully made, sews them again more smoothly, dipping needles in odd, colorful fluids.  
  
“Your victory was… Astounding, Decima,” she says after a while. “For others… Privaron, natural Arrancars… It’s a sign that they can hope to climb higher. It’s hope for them.”  
  
You look at Esmeralda, thinking that she says “them,” not “us.” She has long ago resigned herself to the condition of a base Hollow - it does not matter if natural Arrancars can climb to the heights of Las Noches. One such as her never will. You bite your lip, pained at this.  
  
“You don’t need to flatter me,” Cirucci says with an edge of scorn, even as the healer digs into her jar and rubs her burn marks away. “I didn’t do it for them. And I know the limits of my strength. If the other Privaron seek to claw their way back to their former status, I expect them to challenge me. Hope is not reconciliation.”  
  
Esmeralda winces, and falls silent. Her ministrations go on for a while, and you feel cast out, a stranger to them both, holding that silly twitching scarf in your hand.  
  
Then, something comes to you. Perhaps you really have changed in these weeks since Barragan sent you to fetch a crown, more than just in power.  
  
You step closer to the table, and sit down alongside Cirucci, a hand’s breadth between you. You feel a tension so close to her, her contained pain as Esmeralda probes at her wounds. You lay your hand on the table between you.  
  
She puts her good hand on yours, clasping your fingers together. You smile faintly. You feel that hand squeeze yours each time the healer pokes a sensitive spot, even though Cirucci’s face is the picture of dignified indifference.  
  
Esmeralda only notices when she steps back, the utter concentration of her work blinding her to the world. She puts her needles and jars down, and looks at you both. Her eyes catch the clasped hands, and she blinks, and then blushes; she quickly turns away, putting her implements back onto their shelves in a flurry of motion.  
  
“So you’ve been told I had regained my station,” Cirucci says, tilting her head slightly. “I didn’t think Ulquiorra one to gossip.”  
  
“No, no, it has nothing to do with him-” Esmeralda says, her eyes peeking over her shoulder, afraid to turn towards you both. “I was told to expect you. And to, well -” her voice trails off, uncertain.  
  
Cirucci smiles. “Of course. Go ahead.”  
  
Esmeralda nods quickly, and reaches for a small bottle of something black and thick, which you almost feel is writhing into its container.  
  
“Where do you…” She begins, and stops again.  
  
Cirucci cracks her neck, and her hand leaves yours. You inch away, uncertain what’s going on. She pulls down the collar of her dress, exposing the pale skin under her collarbone and above her…  
  
“Here,” she says simply. Esmeralda nods.  
  
She takes a long needle, dips it into the black fluid, and applies it to Cirucci’s skin, in the indicated spot. The tip pierces the flesh, and Esmeralda draws in slow, smooth motions.  
  
When she is done, your mistress bears the number 10. She smiles with satisfaction, and gives Esmeralda a nod. The healer bows, stepping away.  
  
Cirucci stands up from the table, her eyes half-closed, a confident, dismissive look. You still see the bruises and stitches and cuts, but they are faded, old marks, as if already days old.  
  
“You’ve done good work,” she says. “Nemo, I have much to do. I will expect you with me when I am introduced before Lord Aizen, but first I must tend to my living arrangements, and other things beside. Meet me in the fort in a few hours.”  
  
You nod, and she gives you a smile - then she’s gone, her every step a declaration of conquest upon the world. You hear them reverberate on the stone stairs as she ascends away from Esmeralda’s office.  
  
Then at last you turn, and give her a sheepish smile. Her eyes boggle, wide and confused.  
  
“Cirucci? And you? What - how - why in -”  
  
She waves her arms in utter confusion, and that can’t help but make you laugh. Thankfully you have something to distract her from this very pertinent question. You reach to the stone counter next to her, taking the bundle of your scarf, and hand it out to her.  
  
“What are you-”  
  
She takes it reflexively, without thinking, and once she does she feels it move in her hands. Her eyes widen as she unfolds the scarf and sees what’s inside.  
  
You couldn’t keep Yammy’s dog, no matter how much you wished to have such a small, faithful companion. His master fell because of you, and he was there during the fight; he would know, and hate you.  
  
But he could sense spiritual energy so well he raced across the sands to find his master, even though he was only a tiny, inconsequential dog. And he stood there as titans fought, barking encouragements.  
  
You feel he would belong with Esmeralda. She had no part in Yammy’s fall. She is not so tall and strong she would not be able to pet him. And, well…  
  
“Nemo,” Esmeralda says, and you can’t read her eyes, her feelings. Unthinkingly you take a step back, afraid you’ve hurt her again somehow. “You found me a dog. You gave me a dog. You…” The words fail her, she is not sure how to ask her question.  
  
But you know what she means, and you nod.  
  
“You found a dog who could see for me,” she says, and all you have to answer is a strained smile. If she takes it as an insult, there is nothing to be done about it. The dog will still be there, and she’ll still-  
  
She smiles, pained and happy at once.  
  
“Thank you,” she says.  
  
Your eyes dart away, and you brush your hair awkwardly. It was nothing. He needed a home.  
  
“Nemo,” she says. “Do you need to… Do you need to talk?”  
  
You look back at her, and the conflicted memories come back in a mad chorus, her rejecting you and reaching out, you rejecting her and reaching out, the unbearable uncertainty between you. She saved your life and in the same hour, sitting on the bed where you had trusted her to cut you open, you said nothing when she asked if she could trust you.  
  
And you were right, you know deep down. Back then, to promise anything - it would have been a lie.  
  
There are many things on your mind. Cirucci’s uniform is ruined, you will need to get a new one. Of course, your skill with La Marana would let you make one yourself. But if you went to Alphonse with this as an excuse, you could tell him to come with you to Yammy’s arm, the pillar of flesh. To give him that - it would be a fitting gift for all that he has taught you. You could do so much with it together, instead of being his indebted apprentice forever.  
  
 **  
[X]Sit down and talk. About you, about her, about the both of you.  
[ ]Go find Alphonse, and work together on the grandest project you’ve ever had so far.**  
  
  



	2. Esmeralda

Silence hangs over the room. You look at Esmeralda, and she looks at you, uncertainty in both your eyes.

You shake your head, snap out of it.

You raise one hand to your mouth, then point to hers, and make a questioning gesture. She nods awkwardly. You go to sit on her operating table but she waves you away; she draws two chairs from a corner of the room and sets them at a slight angle, a couple feet between them.

You sit, but she doesn’t yet. Instead Esmeralda rummages through her shelves until finds a bottle of ochre-stained glass and two stone cups. She pours some of the translucent liquid into each cup, then offers one to you; you accept it, trying to hide your doubt, and she cradles the other in both hands as she sits some distance from you.

“So…” She begins, but her sentence trails off. You lean down and smell the liquid in your cup; it is strong - not quite as much as Yammy’s spirits, but…

...you realize you will never again think of anything as “Yammy’s spirits.” You only drank his terrible booze once, yet even so it feels like a distant loss. You will never know where he founds his drinks, or why he enjoyed them so much. You take a deep swallow out of Esme’s cup to avoid thinking about it, and in a way it succeeds; it’s like an assault on your mind, a swarm of bugs drowning you in their buzz. You shake your head to clear your thoughts.

“...Cirucci and you,” she finishes, looking at you expectantly.

You give her a weary smile. It’s complicated… Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s easier to think of it as complicated. You sigh into your cup. You run a hand around your neck, then tug at some invisible collar, then make a gesture to open it and throw it away. You run a hand across your chest and finally touch your heart. You make an open-palm gesture, as if pulling it out of your chest.

Esmeralda shakes her head.

“Even if she tells you that you can leave any time, that you are free, it doesn’t mean it’s true. I understand how you could feel for her, Nemo, but - she’s so much more powerful than you, and she only wants to climb up, to become an Espada again, and to claw her way back to as high a spot as she can. How can you believe that she won’t discard you when it’s convenient for her?”

You shrug. You clasp a hand on your heart. That’s the thing about trust. If you knew for a fact that she would never turn on you or discard you, it would not be trust, only knowledge.

“Okay, but why that trust? Even if it’s not rooted in practical knowledge, it must come from somewhere. Not just… Her holding hands with you,” she says, blushing slightly.

You nod. It’s an important question. It’d be easy to dismiss it, but then what would be the point of talking to Esmeralda in the first place?

You try to explain. You wave to the west, beyond the walls of Esmeralda’s infirmary. You lift your hands to evoke the great pillars of the Racing Grounds, and you wave your arms, one hand fluttering away to depict Cirucci’s flight, another clenched into a fist and making the crushing motion of Yammy’s Resurreccion. You show yourself as a tiny jiggling of fingers. Esmeralda looks at your hands, caught in your shadow-play.

Your fluttering hand comes crashing into your fist, and you show the first one flying up into the sky, your other hand showing you staring up at your flying mistress. Then you sweep the air with both your hands, erasing the scene, and stare at Esmeralda.

“You were… There? That’s insane! You could have been killed!”

You shrug. She could have been killed too. You could not help her in that fight, but you could stand side by side with her, to the end. And when you spoke to her, she apologized for her pride, for the recklessness of her tactics.

“It’s not what I… My God, Nemo. Why did you have to expose yourself to so much danger?” Esmeralda asks anxiously.

You think. It’s a worthwhile question, one you cannot answer with platitudes.

You motion to the endless world behind the walls. You wave your hands palms down, as if flattening the sands into a great plain. You cover your face with one hand, a mask. You make a flutter of fingers like a rising flame, catch them in a circular motion of your hands, power contained. You count on your hands the Dancers of the salt pan, then make a scale of your hands, showing how far below you they were. You point to yourself, and move one hand away, then show your empty palms.

“But why?” Her questions become pressing, almost angry. “You had that power for the taking. Why give it away?”

You point to her with one finger, and she falls silent. You smile wearily.

“Because of me..?”

You shake your head. Not simply because of her; but because of what she asked you. You tap your chest. You draw a circle around your head, a crown. Barragan’s mission. You make the flattening gesture again. Esmeralda nods slowly.

You once thought you were just a pawn, who had to do whatever the mighty wanted, and so you could not be guilty of any crime. It was all for survival; you were given no choice in the matter. If you trampled over the weak, it was because you were forced to.

But now you know better. Now you own your actions. You look sadly at Esmeralda, and draw lines from your eyes to your cheeks, then rub them away. The guilt you feel - it does not help any of those you’ve hurt before. You don’t wield it as a shield, claiming that you deserve forgiveness because you feel bad.

You just try to do better than you did before.

Esmeralda bites her lip, and silence hangs over you both. After a moment she picks up the bottle and pours you and her another cup. You sip it slowly - you don’t feel dizzy anymore, but a little odd, more thoughtful than at the start of your conversation. You feel as if you could just sit here with her in silence, just finding calm contentment in each other’s presence. For a time, that is what happens. Then she speaks again.

“I want to be your friend, Nemo,” she says, cradling her cup. “I’ve wanted to since the first time I saw you, huddled in your silk blankets, looking meek and afraid and… Curious and quiet too. You saw me, but you didn’t dismiss me as some errand girl. That is why I thought you were as weak as I was. Even though I couldn’t sense your power, I knew you could sense mine, and I figured, if you treated me as a person and not someone’s prop, it meant you must have been on the same level as me. When I learned you were stronger, I felt betrayed, but… Since then I’ve realized that instead, it meant that even though you were strong, you still didn’t think of me as some ant.”

You say nothing and watch her. She drinks a little, her eyes looking away from you, staring at her office and all its strange contraptions, chemicals and tools.

“If it were still the same now as it was then, if you were still an errant girl too, I’d have no qualms taking your hand and swearing friendship. Because I trust you would not hurt me, not of your own will. But you’re playing with the big boys now - or girls, as it were. If I am your friend, I am more than just Las Noches’s medic, weak but carefully neutral, and useful to everyone. I am someone’s ally. I am a party in the Espada’s feuds, even if a distant one. I am someone who could be hurt to hurt you, or Cirucci.”

You think for a moment.

Then you nod, and that surprises her. She looks at, eyes furrowed, uncertain.

You tap your chest and make with your hands a shape like a clock, and turn it backwards. Rewinding time. You put both fists close to your heart, then make a scale like when you showed how weak the Dancers were compared to you. Then you clasp both hands in unity. Then you make the crown gesture again, and raise the weaker hand, and make a slashing motion. Gone.

Esmeralda looks saddened.

“So you’ve lost a friend too. To the games of the mighty, their whims. You understand why I can’t…” She doesn’t finish her sentence.

You nod slowly, knowing in your heart that these doubts can’t just be swept away. There is no good answer to such fears - but there are ones better than others.

“When was this?” She asks, eluding the question that looms over you both. “You were Arrancar then, right?”

You shake your head. You mask your head with both hands, and you circle your stomach, remembering the hunger.

“And he was… Weaker than you? But you never ate him.”

You shrug.

“I don’t know why you say you’re hoping to do better, when even as a Hollow, even consumed by the hunger, you still never turned on a weaker friend. You’re better than you think you are.”

Again, you shrug. You feel no pride in having spared Mantis. You never thought about it as some triumph of morality over your base instincts. He was your friend, and that was all that mattered.

Esmeralda smiles faintly.

The silence hangs over you both, and you stare into your cup.

You know she’s right, that a promise of friendship would not come without consequences. She would do more for you than she would for all the other Arrancars coming through her infirmary. And you would do more in return. And this bond would be noticed, and she would no longer be a meek servant standing outside of the Espada’s power struggles.

It would put her in danger, but - is she really safe as she is now?

You think back to Yammy, and his bubbling anger as Esmeralda explained she could not heal his scars. You think back to what she told you - how she had not been a healer by nature, just someone who had picked up the skills. If one of Las Noches’s monsters struck her down in a bout of anger, there would be no one to protect her, no one to stand up for her. And if she died, she could be replaced.

Is this safety?

You look up at her, and though your throat feels dry and your hands are slightly numb, you know you must express this to her, your worry and your affection. 

**[X] Share a story of you and Mantis with her.  
[ ] Share a story of you and Cirucci with her.  
[ ] Share a story of yourself alone with her.**


	3. Pray For The Mantis

Esmeralda looks at you expectantly, but she says nothing. She knows you are finding the words or signs to speak your heart, and she knows also that this can take you a long time. She is patient.  
  
You stare down into your cup. The ochre liquid within is an absorbing sight. It seems to expand as you gaze, to dim into brown, then into true black, flooding your vision until you drown in it.  
  
You are flying across the starless skies of Hueco Mundo, your friend on your back.  
  
Mantis is caught between the twin thrills of excitement and fear. His pincers dig into your shoulder, afraid as he is to be blown away in the wind, but his eyes gleam with simple joy. For his pleasure (and to tease him over his frightful nature), you perform simple tricks, whirring and looping in the air, flying in reverse so that he clutches your back for fear of falling. At times he cries in distress, at others in mirth.  
  
Eventually, his weight grows too heavy for you. Strength has never been your strongest suit, and you can never take him along for long. You glide down to the ground and set foot on the sand, lowering your abdomen to let him climb down. His pincers release your shoulders, and you briefly feel the ache where they bruised your carapace, but your regeneration is quick to take the pain away.  
  
No longer caught in the moment, Mantis pauses, looking ahead at the depression in the sand ahead of you and the head of Gillians peeking above the dunes in the distance.  
  
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” He asks, voice thick with worry.  
  
You stare at him, then shake your head. No, of course you’re not sure. But it’s better than staying alone, at least for now. Food has grown scarce lately, and your hunts have taken you further and further, away from what little semblance of civilization is in Hueco Mundo. You are not sure where they will lead you if you remain two lone Hollows.  
  
You’ve always valued your mutual freedom. Together in the world, away from danger, avoiding the trampling of giants. But you have never held it to be so sacred a virtue that it would come before your survival.  
  
“I trust you,” Mantis says firmly, his worry gone. You are not sure you deserve that feeling, but you nod all the same. You must look confident for his sake, if not your own.  
  
The Hundred-Armed Duke has no palace, but an amphitheatre carved into a great depression in the sand. This was once the deadly pit of the Mother of Antlions, which the Duke slew in single combat, scattering her progeny to the wind. You’ve had to face said progeny before several times, as feral desert ambushers - and even now a handful of them serve in the Duke’s ramshackle army, for antlions know no family or allegiance other than that of a full belly.  
  
You climb down the stairs, and the gathered Hollows whisper as they part around you. Many of them here are weaker than you, and so you are cause for fear and surprise. But the Duke is far stronger. He raises from his stone dais, looking at you with amusement.  
  
He truly is a terrible creature, half-snake half-squid, massive serpentine body an abstract painting of reds and blues, his mask crowned with many tentacles, a wicked beak stained with his own venom. He towers far above you, and must lean down on his coils to look closer.  
  
You and Mantis bow before saying anything, and this pleases him.  
  
“We have come to beseech your favor,” Mantis says. (You usually let him do the talking. This is one of these things where he is better than you, to your relief.) “We offer our services, and request only a stipend of food as reward.”  
  
“Two Adjuchas, eh?” The Duke says, and you do not know how his rigid beak manages a smile (but it does). “Such strong ones are always welcome in my army.”  
  
The Duke would never speak of “court” or “subjects” or “people.” His followers were an army, first and foremost. He answered to Barragan, of course, as all did; but this far from Las Noches this was a nominal fealty, a matter of a regular tithe and a few messengers once in a while. The King rarely bothered to send clear orders to such distant dominions, and so the Duke was free to march his troops to and fro, and to claim lands whose fealty was just as vague as his own.  
  
“What are your talents, little ones?”  
  
Mantis speaks humbly of his designs, his experience hiding, stalking and setting traps, of his ingenious contraptions, not all meant to hurt or kill. You show your flight, your speed, and scream your Cero into the sky. The Duke is pleased.  
  
“My sappers have been in dire need of a strong one leading them. You will take that place among them,” the Duke says to Mantis, then turns to you. “And you will be one of my valued couriers and scouts.”  
  
You hesitate. Mantis looks at you with concern, then raises his head to the serpentine giant.  
  
“We are good friends, O Duke, and have long practiced together in the sand wastes. We will do our best for you side by side.”  
  
“Friends among Hollows? Who ever heard of such a thing!” The Duke laughs, and his army laughs harder, all of them accepting this as a good joke. “No, no, I have not enough Adjuchas that I can afford to pair them so when there is need of them everywhere. If you will serve, you will serve as I command. You will have time for your ‘friendship’ when you are not on duty.”  
  
His tone is good-humored, but there is a finality of steel behind it. You and Mantis look at each other, and for a moment you entertain the thought of going back. But you’ve come too far for it to have been a waste. You turn to the coiled ruler, and nod.  
  
He is pleased. He sends you on your way, and before you have time to talk again, Hollows from each side of the amphitheatre swarm you, dragging you away to brief you on the tasks that await you. You see Mantis’s confused glance above their heads just as he is taken away.  
  
You are a scout and a courier for some time. The Duke claims dominion over large stretches of sand, most of them empty, and his army is much scattered. You are tasked with carrying orders and missives between these many groups and back to the Duke, keeping him apprised of his successes and rare losses. Though some other Hollows under his command can fly, you are the fastest of them all, and the most able to defend yourself when someone ambushes you on the way. Most such ambushes are not the work of non-existent enemy armies, but simply the work of predatory Hollows; in his quest to expand his rule the crowned snake has not deigned to secure law in his lands. Such is the way of most Hollow rulers.  
  
You see much of the Duke’s army in that time. A handful of other Adjuchas, some weaker than you, most stronger. A smattering of sentient Gillians that have tamed packs of their own kin. Many base Hollows who do grunt work and go often hungry, but never enough to be worth it to strike out on their own. As for you, you are well-fed, for ypur master values your skill.  
  
The Duke did not lie; you do see Mantis again, when you are not taken with your duties. Such days are unfortunately rare, for your own periods of quiet rarely coincide with his. He talks to you about the strange work he has been tasked with - never before as he overseen other people’s work, or tried to create anything that he could not hold in his own hands. But the Duke demands traps and weapons, and so Mantis delivers as best as he can. When you find yourself together, you often talk of past freedom, of obeying only the whim of your feet and the hunger in your belly. You long for these days, but you also remember the sparse hunts and how the hunger never seemed to abate. You are well fed, for now.  
  
One day, the Duke orders you to go back all the way to Las Noches, and this order sends a shiver down your back. In another time this might have been enough for you to flee, but day by day you have been cowed into routine. You do not speak up, and fly away to the palace of nights. You cross the desert for many nights with bags slung on your back. When you reach the seat of the one true King, it is much as you remembered it; Barragan still sits in his eternal ennui, listening as courtiers drone on about subjects you neither understand nor care about.  
  
When your turn comes you bow deeply and hand the Duke’s missive to the King’s herald. They are the few facts of the Duke’s princedom that may be of interest to his liege; how many Hollows have sworn oath in his name, how vast a stretch of desert he can think of as his own, rumors of some Vasto Lorde being spotted close to the Duke’s borders, other such trifles. When you are done you produce from your bags jewelry of quartz and silver and lay it down before the King, who absent-mindedly motions to a servant to pick them up. Then you recede into the crowd, and are gone as fast as you can.  
  
In these days you only feared Barragan. It would be much later that you would learn to resent him.  
  
It is on your return trip that you see the moon crescent rise over the sands. For a moment, you think it the true moon, before you realize the real one hangs over your head. You stare dumbstruck, and see that this one is a crescent of steel, bobbing with the motions of walk. Then you know fear.  
  
You strain reishi and muscles alike to race your way back to the Duke’s domain. The wind scours your face and numbs your legs like rarely before or since. You do not land in th amphitheatre so much as slide gracelessly on the ground, coming to a stop before the Duke. Wide eyed, you explain what you saw, and for a moment they disbelieve. You must insist, for you are certain of what you saw. It is him. It can only be him. You have seen the angle of his walk; you know his path will take him directly through these lands. You do not need to explain what will happen then; all know.  
  
Mantis is there, thankfully, staring at you from the crowd with poorly-hidden fear. Once you have seen him, you turn to the Duke, and explain that he must gather his army and move to another part of his dominion, as far from here as possible.  
  
“How long until he arrives?” The Hundred-Armed Duke asks. You look at the tilt of the moon. A day, perhaps less.  
  
“I have an army, and he is alone,” the Duke says scornfully. “I have a princedom, and I will not relinquish it. He is only an Adjucha, same as me, same as you. We will stand, and crush him, and I will have the King’s respect.”  
  
That is madness. You almost say so, but catch yourself. You know better.  
  
“You, moth, will hurry to my forces in the south. They will come to reinforce us. You, mantis, will lead the sappers in emptying our stores of traps, obstacles and devices, and set them on his path. Gillians…”  
  
You tune out the rest. You turn to find Mantis in the crowd and close in with him. Your mandibles chitter in anxiety, and he tries to be reassuring. He tells you about all the great things they’ve done: Hollow secretions turned into explosives and incendiaries, blades dipped in the Duke’s venom, sinkholes formed by hungry antlions. It brings you little comfort.  
  
You almost ask him to run with you, but you feel the Duke’s eyes weigh heavily on you, and the other Hollows watching too. So you give him a nod of good luck, a wave of goodbye, and you are gone in the sky.  
  
You don’t know how long you fly. Two hours, three. At first you see the Duke’s army skitter like tiny ants far below you, preparing for war against one single man. But soon they’re gone, and there are only the sands stretching below you.  
  
You look to the north. You can’t see him this far. But with nothing in the vast emptiness to occupy your senses, you can already feel him. A vague of bloodlust slowly spreading from the horizon, encroaching the Duke’s domain. It makes you shiver. You can already see red stains on the sand and smell bitter copper in the air, but you reassure yourself these are only tricks of the mind.  
  
Can you reach the Duke’s southern forces in time? Perhaps. It depends what “in time” means. They will certainly reach the amphitheatre in time to join the main army and make a stand.  
  
They will not reach it before the roving moon has set over the sappers. Not before it is wading through Mantis’s cunning traps and devices, and you do not know if he will run in time. You do not know if he can even run fast enough.  
  
And it was all your fault. It was your idea to come serve under a princeling in hopes of steady food. Mantis thought it was a devil’s deal, but he trusted you anyway.  
  
You look to the south, where you cannot yet see the army. Damn the Duke and his overstretched domain.  
  
You tell yourself that you hesitate, but your decision was made long ago.  
  
You turn back. Head north of the amphitheatre, where Mantis is doing his hopeless work.  
  
When you reach him and the others, they do not see you. You are flying high overhead, a black dot against a black sky, and they do not think to look up anyway. You watch them for a while, scurrying across the dunes. They bury sacks of inflammable fluids, set spears pointing northwards, dig up blade pits and cover them up, order the antlions around. Mantis is the only Adjucha there, the others are base Hollows and two tall Gillians keeping watch, eyes on the horizon.  
  
You can see him now. The crescent is outlined silver-grey against the dark. Very far, and only slowly walking, hours away still. But getting too close, too fast. The sappers will still be working when it falls on them.  
  
You could land, pick up Mantis, tell him it’s a lost cause. He would listen. But the others would cry betrayal. They would either try to stop you, or if you were fast enough to escape, run back to the Duke. Learning that you both got away, he would know that there is no time for reinforcement to reach him, or to finish setting the traps. He would know the battle to be lost before it is fought, and flee with his army. Many lives would be saved.  
  
And then he would send his Hollows after you, no matter the distance, no matter how long it took, so that all would know the price of desertion. Perhaps he would even send word to the King, for all that Barragan would care.  
  
You tell yourself you hesitate, but your decision was made long ago.  
  
The sappers are watching the horizon, where the only threat they know of is coming from. They never look to the sky. You dive down, motes of light gathering in the spots of your wings, and your two Ceros take the Gillians by surprise - they are the only combat threats here, and must be dealt with first. The giants howl in pain and surprise and fall like great rotted trees. The Hollows panic, scream, and you do a second pass with two more Ceros, widening your beams to reap them like wheat.  
  
You land amidst smoke and clouds of sand, pick up a straggler who escaped your assault and your claws do their work.  
  
You turn to Mantis, panting harshly, and he gives you a sad look. You two are alone amidst fire and seared flesh. There is silence, for a time.  
  
“I know,” he says at last. “I wanted to be brave for once, but there was no hope of…”  
  
You raise a clawed leg to his mouth, and he falls quiet. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against your palm.  
  
You lower your head to the ground and he climbs onto your back without another word. You launch yourself into the sky.  
  
When the roving moon comes across what traps the sappers had time to set, there are conflagrations, fire licking the sands, the acrid smell of poisons, the screeching of antlions. It is shrouded in fire and venom and harassed by blades. It passes through them all without slowing down.  
  
You’re close enough to see it even as you fly away. The Hundred-Armed Duke still thinks his reinforcements are coming, and tries to stall. He sends his gillians first, walls of flesh to take blows and exhaust the enemy, but there is no point. The crescent moon unfolds into many scythed arms, and they cut through the black cloaks in great gushes of red. You can smell it even this far, the potency of reiatsu shed, returning to the sky - and coming down. The starless skies that ordinary know no rain now weep tears of blood. You wipe a few out of your eyes.  
  
He is a mantis, like your friend. You never understood how two Hollows of the same mould could be so different.  
  
The army of base Hollows tries to fight from range, hitting and running, drawing the enemy’s strength to exhaust him. He just slices through them all without a stop. His scythe-arms are like some great thresher going through a field of grain, but his harvest is red. Even so far you hear the high-pitched whine of steel cutting the air, the screeching of every killing blow. The Duke comes out last, roaring a challenge, two flying Adjuchas at his shoulders. He spits venom and flails his tentacles, coils slithers and crushes while his servants fire great golden Ceros.  
  
The other mantis uses the Duke’s own body as a ladder, climbing to the sky and leaping to take the fliers out of the air. They crash down like petrified birds, struck down mid-flight. When they are dead, the moon-mantis sets to cutting the Duke apart piece by piece. The princeling roars and hisses and screams, giving her blow he has in him, and all he gets for his trouble is a more drawn-death.  
  
The Hundred-Armed Duke is still dying when he and his opponent finally fade out of sight. Mantis says nothing, and neither do you.  
  
You head west, into the unknown.

  
  
…

  
  
The sound of pained whining pulls you out of your memories, and Esmeralda out of her listening trance. She looks around in surprise before remembering the bundle of cloth on her counter; she stands up and unfolds the wrapped fabric, her hands lightly brushing the fur of Yammy’s dog.  
  
“Shh, shhh, it’s alright,” she whispers. The dog snaps its head, barks angrily, but Esmeralda picks him up in her arms unworried. She cradles it and brushes its head, muttering simple, appeasing jumbles of words. The dog relaxes slightly and whimpers.  
  
“You’re hungry,” aren’t you? She whispers. You watch silently as she pulls a bowl out from a nearby table - some unfinished lunch - and feeds little bits of meat to the dog from her hand. It laps hungrily, and she keeps whispering. She is smiling faintly now, and it makes you feel warm.  
  
Then she turns back to you, frowning. The dog catches sight of you and growls, but she pats its head reassuringly.  
  
“Of all the stories you could have told me,” she asks after a while, “why this one?”  
  
You wish you knew.  
  
You would have known, once. You would have told her that it was a story about what truly mattered to you. About how, for a friend, you would transgress any order and damned yourself.  
  
But you walked away from the Mask of Luna. In that battle long ago you killed many weaker Hollows, not because you had no choice, not because they were your enemies, but because it granted you peace of mind, because it gave you the certainty that they would not come to hunt you down.  
  
And you know you wouldn’t do this anymore. You didn’t do it for Cirucci. Would you do it for Esmeralda?  
  
No.  
  
“They thought you were their allies, and you killed them” she says, frowning. Her arms slowly rock the dog back to sleep. “How is this a story about trust?”  
  
It’s not, you realize.  
  
It’s a story about war, and about Esmeralda. It’s a story about how when war comes it embraces all without distinction. The feuds of Las Noches and the neutrality of the useful medic won’t matter, because war will grind all to dust. She will die because it’s convenient, or she will die because the enemy finds her a valuable target, or she will die because of power recklessly unleashed, without anyone noticing.  
  
And you can’t let that happen.  
  
You look at her, and your eyes beg her. You want to be her friend, but this gulf between you as kept you away from each other, and you don’t know if there will be time to cross it with that sword hanging over your heads. You want her to let you keep her safe.  
  
She makes a pained smile.  
  
“And how would you do that, Nemo? You’re strong - strong enough that you beat Findor. But still just a Fraccion. Would Cirucci care as much as you do? And even if she did, she’s only the Ten.”  
  
Cirucci would care. Esmeralda’s skills would be incredibly valuable to have as someone dedicated, it would be stupid to waste-  
  
No. Cirucci would care because you do. Even if she doesn’t understand or share the feeling, she would respect it. You know this to be true.  
  
Esmeralda shakes her head.  
  
“I’m too weak to be protected. Too fragile if the mighty fight over me and I’m caught in the crossfire.”  
  
That…  
  
You narrow your eyes and set your mouth and stare firmly at her.  
  
You can solve this.  
 **  
[ ][Marana]**  Create an item that will bind a part of your power and transfer it to her, coaxing out her own spiritual power so that she can be strong enough to survive the challenges ahead. (Lose 500xp off your current tracks: -200 Sonido, -100 Marana, -200 Style. Esmeralda gains the “Ally” tag and now receives automatic Arc and Omake XP which can improve her abilities. Esmeralda’s loyalty will be obvious to the rest of Las Noches.)  
 **  
[ ][Style]** Teach her the ways of subtle servants, that she may help you without sacrificing the appearance of neutrality. (Esmeralda does not gain the “Ally” tag, and will not grow stronger. She does give you preferential treatment, will do favors for you even if they come at the expense of other Arrancars, and her true loyalty will mostly fly under the radar.)  
 **  
[X][Descorrer]**  This place is not safe for her, and never will be. You can’t leave, not anymore, but she still has this chance. Open a Garganta to the living world, and offer to her find a place away from feuding Espadas and spiritual wars. No one will notice you. They never do. (Esmeralda cannot become an Ally, and will no longer act as the medic of Las Noches.)


	4. Descorrer

It takes you time to come around to the only solution you can trust.  
  
You try to avoid it. You try to think your way around it. You imagine Esmeralda and you fighting together, her living in Cirucci’s new fort, you imagine defending her against anything and everything. You imagine teaching her how to avoid the anger of the powerful, crafting tokens of Marana with which to help her survive.  
  
And it all rings false. Eventually, these pictures fade away, and you’re left alone with your empty glass and her patient eyes on you.  
  
You look up at her, and she starts in surprise.  
  
“What… What’s wrong?” She asks.  
  
You smile faintly. Nothing is wrong. That’s the problem.  
  
You stand up from your seat, pacing across the room, a slight shaking in your hand. You turn on your heels and you point one finger at her.  
  
She has to go. It’s the only way she’ll be safe.  
  
At first, she stares in blank surprise. Then she giggles.  
  
“Did the drink get to you? Nemo, I can’t go. Medic or no, I’m a soldier. I have a duty to all the people of this fortress, and if I escape, I will be hunted down.”  
  
You shake your head, draw a door across the air. You can take her to the Living World, where no one will find her.  
  
This time she realizes you’re not joking, or drunk. You’re serious. Her eyes widen and she leans away in her chair. Yammy’s dog shakes and whimpers, and she rubs its head until it calms down; even so it feels like an ill omen.  
  
“The Living World? Where all the Shinigami work? We came here to escape this place, Nemo. You know that. No matter how bad it gets in here, it’s still better than back there.”  
  
You shake your hand, motion to your mask. You’re Arrancars. You don’t need to eat souls, and your spiritual pressure is different. And Esmeralda’s pressure is… Almost unnoticeable. She won’t be in any danger.  
  
“Nemo, that’s treason.” The words come out in a hush, fear on her features. And you just answer with an angry slash of your hand. She has no duty to put herself in danger working with people who’d as soon kill her as look at her. And if she fears the Shinigami in the Living World, what will she think when Lord Aizen actually goes to war with them? Will she be safer then?  
  
“Nemo, please, calm down. This is reckless. It’s not like you.”  
  
Of course it’s like you. You stole the fragment of crown. You burned your house down to fight Findor, escaped and threw yourself at Cirucci’s mercy, sent Yammy into the forest on a hunch, headed off into the salt pan on a vague rumor.  
  
You’re not strong, you’re not bold, you’re not proud. But reckless, yes, that you are.  
  
And it’s gotten you so far.  
  
“What are you saying?” She says, worried and afraid. But you can’t let that stop you. You know the only way to keep her truly safe.  
  
You can open a door to the Living World, a door no one will notice. You can take her there, and find her a place to shelter in. You know people - vaguely, but they are friendly, and they will help her if you ask. You can visit; you’ve been to the Living World plenty of times before, and you know where to go, what to steal, how to make an empty building into a home. You can visit any time.   
  
“Nemo, please, stop.”  
  
You pause in your motions. You realize your breath is fast and harsh. You were gesturing wildly, overcome with your idea. Esmeralda looks at you and there is a sadness in her eyes, but no rejection.  
  
“Do you really think… That’s the only way?”  
  
It’s not the only way. You could give her power, you could teach her as Cirucci taught you. But it’s the safest way. What is there for her in Las Noches? Monsters - you remember Yammy’s anger as she tried to help him. You can find friends for her in the Living World, to replace the ones she’d lose here-  
  
“I don’t have friends, Nemo,” she says with a mirthless chuckle. The dog shudders and she scratches behind its ears, at the edges of its mask. “Just you. And this dog, now.”  
  
You’ll visit her. You’ll make sure she’s safe and comfortable.  
  
“If it’s what you think is best, I trust you.”  
  
And for a moment you don’t see her anymore. You see Mantis, staring at you with awestruck eyes, amazed of your power, as little as it was.  
 _  
I trust you._  
  
If you keep her close, she could meet the same fate as he did. You are dangerous. Being close to you is dangerous. Only Cirucci is strong enough that you don’t fear to bring her harm.  
  
So you have to send her away.  
  
You nod. It is the best way. Esmeralda looks away, but she nods.  
  
You can’t stop to think about it. You wave your hand and it comes easily, far more than ever before. The fabric of the world is soft and yielding, and you only have to push to make it tear. It slides open like two heavy curtains, opening on endless darkness.  
  
She looks at it with fear. You extend one arm and open your hand. She looks at you, hesitates.  
  
Then her hand clasps yours, and you pull her into the darkness with you.  
  
It’s like the pressure of the deep ocean. It squeezes on you, damp and oppressive. It mocks you, giggling at the edges of your earing. It gnaws at your skin, making your fingers and feet numb. You feel Esmeralda’s hand twitch in yours, although you cannot see her; you squeeze tighter, hasten your steps. You do not listen to what the darkness says. You thrust your hand ahead of you, part the curtains again, and there is light.  
  
You are standing on a concrete roof, showered in sunlight. This is not the sun of Las Noches. It is the living sun, and it does not watch, it does not care. It is vast and far away and indifferent to your struggle, and this is perhaps the most comforting of thoughts you’ve had today.  
  
You pull gently on Esmeralda’s hand, and she steps closer to you. Then her hand slips from yours and her eyes are wide as she watches everything: the buildings around you, the sky and clouds (there are no clouds in the Fortress of Nights), the crowds down below, scurrying like a gigantic hive. Her breath is taken away for a moment, and you try on a smile. It falters.  
  
“I’d forgotten how it was,” she whispers.  
  
You nod. The last time you faced a crowd up close was on the day you met Riruka. You think if you had come close to one today it would have overwhelmed you again. It is enough to withstand the colors, the wind, the smells, the distant sights. Las Noches feels so quiet in comparison.  
  
There is a rail on the rooftop, and Esmeralda leans on it, folding her arms, watching it all. She holds the dog close to her, and it is no longer sleeping; it sticks its head out of her embrace, watching all around you, and whimpering in fright. You say nothing, and there is silence for a while. You touch her shoulder, point to a nearby building you remember. This last floor is empty, easy for an Arrancar to squat in while waiting for better. You used it before. Esmeralda nods slowly, and the silence comes again.  
  
She’s the first to speak again.  
  
“Do you remember what it was like? To live here? Or… To be dead here.”  
  
You shrug, uneasy. Some fragments, that’s all. Bits and pieces. This world is foreign to you now.  
  
“Really?” She asks, turning to you, her eyes puzzled, and somewhat sad. It makes you uncomfortable. “You don’t remember anything?”  
  
No, you do remember some things. It’s just…  
  
You sigh and close your eyes. You think back, reach down into the dark.  
  
You remember a little girl running. You remember sitting and watching moths dancing in the firelight. You remember faceless figures pressing around you. You remember a tall figure holding your hand.  
  
You reach deeper, and you feel  _them_.  
  
Tens, hundreds, thousands. Moaning and gnashing and weeping. Writhing and squeezing against one another. Their maws snapping on empty air and each other. And endless sea of souls, and each of your memories a tiny dot of light in that ocean of bodies-  
  
You shake your head. You don’t remember much.  
  
“Of course. You’re an Adjucha,” Esmeralda says, and it sounds like an apology. She turns her eyes away and looks out on the skyline.  
  
“I remember,” she adds, and you fall silent.  
  
“There was a little boy. He was sick, and it made me feel so awful. I would visit him every day, and every day he’d smile when he’d see me. I would steal… Little things. Toys and trinkets that I would put onto his bed for him to play with. It made him so happy. The doctors thought it was his family bringing them, his family thought it was his friends. He would talk about me, but they’d smile sadly and talk about his ‘imaginary friend.’ But I never left. Nobody else could see me, but he could, and it was enough.”  
  
You bite your lip as you watch her, waiting for her to say more, but she does not. After a moment she looks at you, smirking.  
  
“You told me a story of yours, but you never asked for a story of mine. Do you want to hear it?”  
  
You don’t. You know how it ends. And yet, almost against your own will, you nod.  
  
“Nobody could help him. He wasted away in spite of all his doctors’ efforts and his family’s pleas, and then he was gone. He was my anchor, the only thing giving me happiness and a sense of self. When he was gone, I wept and howled, and there was a chain, and I was bound and consumed myself in my grief. And when the chain broke… Well, there was only anger. I found the doctors who had failed him, and I made sure they wouldn’t fail anyone else. Ever again.”  
  
You fold your arms against your chest, holding yourself tightly for warmth. Even so, your body shivers. Esmeralda looks up from her rail.  
  
“It’s why I went to him, you know? Why I wanted him to break my mask. So that I could have a chance to pay back what I had taken. To heal a life for each one they could have healed, if I’d let them live long enough. And yet, throughout it all, what I really wanted was to find another little boy like the one I’d lost, and this time to help him, to save him. But when I did, well…” She smiles bitterly, looking down at the crowd. “My little boy was immortal, and all my healing was of no use to him.”  
  
You are frozen in silence, watching her without a word or sign. After a while, she turns to you.  
  
“You never needed me, and I accepted that, I accepted that you were strong. But I needed  _you_ , Nemo.”  
  
You don’t know what to say. You hate yourself for it, but it doesn’t change the fact of it. You never know what to do when confronted with such words. They haunt you, hurt you, empty you. You look at her, and you are only a silent facade.  
  
So you step back, and let her look on at the city. You wait for as long as she needs, watching the sun angle its way towards sunset. You know in another world Cirucci is waiting for you, but this moment you set aside, for yourself and Esmeralda.  
  
At last she pushes herself off the rail and looks at you.  
  
“Show me these friends of yours, then.”  
  
You nod, and let a bell ring inside your mind. Your Pesquisa rolls over the land like a single wave, and you see bright dots shine in your mind. There are a few you do not know, and you dismiss them; then you feel two dots close together, and one of them you recognize. You hold your hand out for Esmeralda to take, and she does; and then you are off leaping across the roofs.  
  
Riruka is buying toys, and the young man at her side, fair-haired and shorter than her, is utterly uninterested. All his attention is to the handheld console in his hands. Riruka talks on and on about the plushes and figurines she sees in the window, but you know she doesn’t expect him to listen, she is just filling in the silence.  
  
You appear in front of her with an awkward smile, Esmeralda behind you.  
  
“Cutiebug!” Riruka shouts, eyes wide in surprise. “I thought I’d never see you again! How are you? Gosh, you are still wearing one of these ugly uniforms - although, hm, this one is a lot better than the last one, much more fetching…” She leans down, examining you from every angle, and you rub your hair and try an uneasy chuckle. The young boy behind Riruka cocks an eyebrow and looks at you, then goes back to his game with complete indifference.  
  
“And who’s your friend?” She exclaims, standing straight up and looking defiant. You bow slightly and introduce Esmeralda with a curtsey. She bows in turn.  
  
“My god, you’re awful,” Riruka says with a frown. Esmeralda flinches, taken aback. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean - it’s not your fault, like it wasn’t cutiebug’s fault. But a tallnecked, ankles-length striped green robe? That’s just no good. It’s wasting your potential. That haircut, that mask, your size and posture… God I can’t let you go on like this. Yukio, we need to help her!”  
  
The boy looks up from his game with a dubious expression.  
  
“Shut up! Fashion is more important than those idiots’ bar! Come with me! And bring your dog, I know just how to make him complement the outfit I have in mind for you!”  
  
The boy sighs, and pockets his handheld. Esmeralda stares, blinking, then turns to you with a silent question. The dog looks out from her folded arms in utter confusion. You try on your best smile and shrug.  
  
“Come on, you two! We have work to do and they’ll close shops soon!”  
  
Your eyes meet Esmeralda’s, and you smile sadly. You can’t stay, Cirucci is waiting for you. You will come back to check on her soon, to help her get set up in whichever place she chooses, whether it’s the squat you showed her or with Riruka. Whatever happens, it… It will all be okay.  
  
Esmeralda nods slowly, and it makes you feel uneasy. But she doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. She turns and follows after Riruka and her distracted friend, into the clothing stores.  
  
And then you’re alone.  
  
You watch the street for a while, unknown humans pressing on each side of you, unconsciously avoiding your presence. You wait, for a time, and you have no idea what you are waiting for.  
  
Eventually you turn back from the path Esmeralda took and wave your hand. The curtains part and the darkness is there, welcoming you. This time you do not hold anyone’s hand as you step through.  
  
You thought you were the one helping Esmeralda cross the path, and now you see how foolish that was. She was helping you as much as you were helping her. You are crossing the darkness back to Las Noches, and all the while it whispers to you the same sentence repeated endlessly:  
 __  
“You never needed me, and I accepted that. But I needed you.”  
  
You cringe, focus inwards to shut off the voices, ignore them as best as you can. You rush across the dark, refusing to listen to them.  
  
And then you’re back. Standing alone in Esmeralda’s infirmary.  
  
You look around you, and it hits you at last. There will never again be a healer using this place as headquarters. There will never again be someone who knows what all these tables and counters, what all these jars and bottles of strange decoctions are for. Never again someone who knows how to weave the needles through an Arrancar’s wounds to close them.  
  
You are alone in an empty infirmary.  
 **  
[ ]Take the strange bottles full of oddly-colored liquids.**  She made them herself, and used them to save your lungs. Maybe you will find a use for them.  
 **[ ]Take her odd robes.** Esmeralda never wore a proper Arrancar uniform, and they must have been a reason for that, even if you don’t understand it. Maybe you can put them to some use.  
 **[X]Take a surgical kit, needles and cloth and fluids all designed to operate on an Espada.** She was the weakest of all, and still brave enough to operate on them. You will make her proud.


	5. Interior Arrangement

You linger for a while, your hands brushing the edges of the furniture, grabbing small items to look at them and putting them down, pacing slowly around the room and looking at its emptiness, listening to its silence. Drawing the contours of Esmeralda’s absence.  
  
In the end, you take the bundle of cloth in which you carried Yammy’s dog, and you rummage through the shelves for items whose purpose you can at least dimly understand. Needles and threads, scissors and scalpels, bandages. Then you take vials of blood and strange fluids, bottles of anaesthetic, a closed bowl containing a meat-like paste of the same kind she used to repair your lungs. You take two small jars of what you think is a healing ointment. You put it all into the cloth and wrap it up as if it were a shameful thing.  
  
Then you walk to the door, turn back one last time, and leave.  


 

  
***

  
  
There has been activity in Cirucci’s fort while you were gone. You come home to the sight of many bags and bundles sitting in the middle of the ruined pillars. Cirucci is standing with her back to you, clicking her tongue, and a beleaguered Ren is dragging one last package up from the vault where he has taken (unwilling) residence.  
  
“Nemo!” Cirucci says before turning to see you, your energy as familiar to her as hers is to you. “You’re just in time. I’ve had Ren pack up everything.”  
  
...everything?  
  
“Of course,” she makes a dismissive wave, “I wasn’t going to wait for you to get back. Don’t worry, I’m sure he took good care of your belongings. We’re moving out today.”  
  
You feel a brief chill at the thought of Ren browsing through your items. He couldn’t… No, you’ll worry about that later. You’re surprised Cirucci found appropriate arrangements so soon.  
  
“Oh, dear, I didn’t find it. I was an Espada once already, remember? We’re just going back.”  
  
You blink. You hadn’t thought of that but in retrospect it’s obvious. The Privarons were banished to the frontier of Las Noches, guarding its entrance in their forts. That necessarily means they had to have lived somewhere else before they were banished. You’d have known that, too, as you were there at the time - only busy ducking your head and avoiding notice as much as possible.  
  
“Now, we’re not going to be able to carry all our things at once, so take the most immediately necessary things and we’ll do a few more trips later on.”  
  
You look very politely but very insistently at Cirucci. She blinks. You look at the packaged furniture, and politely do not explain that since she packed everything up in your absence, you have no idea what’s what in there, let alone what is “most necessary.”  
  
She has the decency to slightly blush before lifting her chin.  
  
“Ren knows, ask him! I can’t be bothered with this right now. I have much on my mind,” she says, turning on her heels and walking away from you. You raise a dubious eyebrow, but inside yourself you’re smiling. Cirucci’s familiar behavior is a salve for you, a routine in which you find comfort, and don’t have to think about...  
  
When you turn to Ren, he is staring intently at you and you feel a shiver down your spine. You move quickly closer to him, and he raises one hand, stopping you in your tracks.  
  
“I can’t tell if I had underestimated or overestimated you,” he says, eyes narrowed to slits. You make yourself the picture of quiet composure, unaware of any trouble. “If I had underestimated you, I must have looked like a fine moron giving you tall tales and dire warnings when you were already dabbling with forces far beyond any I’d tangle with. If I had overestimated you, I don’t know how you’re still alive. The luck of fools, I suppose.”  
  
For most of your life, such ominous words would have had you trembling on your feet in fear, regardless of the fact that Ren is weaker than you. But you are Cirucci’s Fraccion, and all you return is a look of simple, unassuming confidence. His brow furrows deeper, and he reaches out with his left hand, clutched tight, then opens its palm to the ceiling.  
  
The golden tooth sits in a hand carved by canyon-like wrinkles, weathered by age, fingers bone-gaunt and pale and marked by liver spots, one that sticks out of a much healthier forearm. When his fingers unfold they do so shakily, creaking with arthritis.  
  
“I suppose you’re not the only moth drawn to flames,” he chuckles. “To see something like it… I had to hold it. I suppose I paid the price. Take it back.”  
  
You catch the tooth out of Ren’s hand. Its dull glow seems more intense in its last moments; you can feel the tiny haze of power seeping down, out of your fingers, like sand in an hourglass. Before the end of the day it will be a simple piece of gold.  
  
“The price of my silence,” Ren whispers, “will be the story of how you got your hands on such a thing. Told at a more appropriate time.”  
  
You feel a twitch - something in you almost snaps to put the old, weak Hollow in his place for his audacity. You shrug that impulse aside casually, and give him a nod. It’s not you. And besides, after pillaging Ren’s store of histories, it seems only fair to give back.  
  
As you turn to the packaged furniture, you sigh and regret your spider friend isn’t here to help you. But you resign yourself to your task and ask Ren what the different bundles hold, then together you begin taking them outside.  


 

  
***

  
  
This is not a fort, or a tower. It is a castle, a fortress within a fortress.  
  
From the outside it looks like a curved cone, inclining upwards, a bright red against the blinding white sands of Las Noches. There is no door that you can see at ground level; instead a series of hexagonal columns rise towards its flank, each one taller than the one before, a stairway where the steps are separated such that one must leap between each one to reach it.  
  
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Ren says darkly.  
  
“Welcome to the Red Chamber,” Cirucci says with a grin.  
  
You look up at her, puzzled. You thought the Red Chamber referred to her old place. Cirucci glowers at you.  
  
“The Pillar Room was  _orange_ , my love. This,” she says thrusting her hand at the fortress, “is red. I thought I’d taught you better than that.”  
  
You look down apologetically.  
  
“For your education - and my historian’s - this was once the rookery of Abirama Redder, in the days before Aizen; a building designed to accommodate a bird of vast proportions who had nothing but disdain for walking on the base earth. When I came to Las Noches to be made an Arrancar, I challenged him in single combat, and claimed his home as my own. He has been living at Barragan’s side ever since, a homeless sycophant.”  
  
You nod. You’ve only briefly encountered Redder, but he is now one of Barragan’s Fraccions. It does not surprise you that Cirucci would have defeated him easily.  
  
Without further ado Cirucci darts away, leaping gracefully between the hexagonal pillars towards a door carved into the face of the fortress - a hundred feet high. You and Ren look dubiously at your packaged furniture. You’ll never be able to use Sonido carrying these.  
  
You eventually devise a system through which you dart on top of a pillar, Ren tosses you a piece of furniture, and you cautiously jump your way to the door, then put it down there and come back until the work is done. It’s a good thing you’re far stronger than any human being.  
  
When you finally step into the Red Chamber, the first thing that surprises you is the lack of darkness. You cross a threshold that is so wide it ought to be called a hallway, and from its shadow you emerge into new sunlight.  
  
The Red Chamber is hollow - a gigantic circular pit, crimson walls rising to a sky they cut into a perfect circle, crowned with half a sun. There are great square platforms jutting out of the walls, each one ending in a door to some room carved into the wall. The arrangement of these platforms spirals along the sides of the chamber, creating yet another disconnected stairway that could not be climbed without Hollow agility.  
  
“What’s this, then?” Cirucci says with a disapproving click of her tongue, and you snap to attention, afraid she’s angry about your tardiness; but she is not talking to you.  
  
Three Arrancars are gathered in the middle of the chamber, sitting on the ground and looking fearfully at your mistress. You recognize them vaguely as minor Numero servants, and their spiritual pressures indicate base Hollows. You look closer and recognize one of them as Eduardo, the servant who attended to Yammy’s needs.  
  
“I suppose it’s to be expected,” Cirucci says angrily. “Leave your home for a while, and vermin claims it.”  
  
You frown and step next to your mistress; she starts a little at your appearance.  
  
“Look at this,” she says, waving to the terrified Numero. You frown slightly deeper, saying nothing, hands folded on your lap. Cirucci stares at you, and there is a flash of surprise, then of anger in her eyes. Then she relaxes and sighs. “All right, all right, ‘vermin’ was uncalled for. But this was my home before, it is my home again, and they have to go. I’m not taking in strays.” You cock an eyebrow. “Well, I don’t take any  _more_ strays. I like the one I have.” You allow her a smile.  
  
Of course, you understand that an Espada cannot let her estate be overrun by the chaff. That said, you do have a lot of furniture and items to move, and perhaps these Numeros might obtain forgiveness for their offenses by helping you..?  
  
“Darling, that’s a splendid idea. Hey, you three! You will help me move back in, and in exchange I shall forgive you your trespass. Or will you test me on this?”  
  
The three Numeros shake their heads frantically and stand up, rushing to the hallway and its furniture. You find it amusing that they are too panicked to pause and ask what their specific orders are; they don’t know what the bundles are, or where to put them. They remind you of yourself, in the early days of your service to Cirucci. You were so terrified of failure, you would rush at the slightest hint of an order, without ever asking how to conduct the task. In this way you wasted a large amount of excellent tea, several hours of Cirucci’s life, and ruined your back for a day misunderstanding her instructions in training. You shake your head at the foolish you of…  
  
...god, was it a month ago? Two months?  
  
Things have happened so fast.  
  
Well, you can let them figure it out for now. It will give them a moment of respite to compose themselves after Cirucci’s anger - in fact, part of the reason you suggested they help you was to give them a chance to ingratiate themselves to her and avoid her wrath. Your mistress is fickle, and sometimes this can be an advantage.  
  
The other part of why you made that suggestion is, of course, that you’d really rather not move any more furniture right now.  
  
“We will put the dinner table here,” Cirucci says waving at the center of the room. “Ideally, we would have a bigger one than we have now, but that can wait. Chairs here, there, and there. We’ll set the guéridon for tea in the cool shade of this platform. Ideally I would have the entire kitchens in a separate room, but given the width of the chamber it would be impractical, so the separate kitchens will only serve for the large meals, and we will set a firepit and the tea service under this platform…”  
  
She goes on and on, and you are surprised to find that it neither overwhelms nor bores you. Somehow, these details seem important to you, and as she describes each discrete arrangement of her new home you find that you can visualise them easily, phantom furniture taking their place in your mind’s eye. Even as your mind drifts to other thoughts you take note of each of her directions, filing most of them away as orders to give to the Numeros and a very few as objections to raise at a more appropriate time.  
  
Cirucci’s sense of interior arrangement is excellent, but it is not perfect.  
  
There is the characteristic bang of Sonido and she is far above, standing on one of the square platforms. You follow her in a second, and she passes the doorless threshold into a large cubic room. Two tall, narrow windows let sunlight stream in. The room is empty but for the cover of dust on the ground - evidently the squatting Numeros made no use of it.  
  
“And this,” Cirucci says with a grin, “will be our bedroom.”  
  
You blink. You gulp. This ‘our’ is a world of fright and anticipation bound up in a single word.  
  
“We will hang curtains on the windows, of course. This corner will have a table for simple snacks and tea in a more private setting. The cupboard will go there, and the wardrobes will line up this wall. And we will need a nightstand here. This space will be for you to arrange your own items and furniture. The bed will go here, tying up the room quite nicely.”  
  
You clear your throat, and Cirucci gives you an expectant look.  
  
The bed would ‘tie up the room nicely’ when set against this wall, but the windows would let the sunlight fall straight onto the sleepers’ eyes. Even with curtains, it will make for a painful wake-up call when they are pulled. If she placed the bed there - you indicate the right-hand corner - the windows would let sunlight fall on the midsection of the bed, which would still make a gorgeous view waking up, but wouldn’t dazzle the unfortunate sleeper.  
  
“Hm.” Cirucci taps her chin, obviously bothered to have her directions questioned. “You’re right, I suppose. Very well. We’ll move the tea place to this corner instead.”  
  
You nod approvingly. You hasten to suggest that thanks to your lessons with Alphonse, you could sew the curtains yourself to make sure they match the color scheme of the room and are not hurtful on the eye.  
  
“I would expect nothing less. Now, let’s move on,” Cirucci says, walking out of the room.  
  
“In my Privaron fort, it made sense to have my vault of treasures set as deep as it could be,” she says looking at one of the uppermost rooms, a windowless gallery stretching to both sides but so narrow the exterior wall here is so thick you would have to use Cero to punch through it. “But here it will make sense to have it in one of the higher rooms, more difficult to access, and easier for a Fraccion to defend and knock an enemy down from.”  
  
You nod. On the one hand you already know Ren will hate to be consigned to some forlorn peak, having to exert great strength every time he wishes to climb down. On the other hand, you know he will appreciate the inherent solitude of such a setting, no matter how much he will deny it. Your mind draws lines and patterns, seeing in advance where the shelves will hold light and simple items, where there will be display cases whose goods are arranged for none but Cirucci herself. You say nothing.  
  
You go through many rooms, many finding a purpose, no matter how trivial, and the rest being too small or too high or too low or too open, doomed to being abandoned for whatever reason Cirucci feels warrants it.  
  
Ultimately, she leaps down from one of the highest platforms and you follow after her. Your landing is a resounding impact, your bodies withstanding it easily but the Red Chamber itself resonating with the strength of your fall. Then she heads for one of the very lowest rooms and you follow after her. You look at her hesitantly, and she scans the space around her with something like distaste.  
  
“I have no use for this room, and that’s a shame. It is wide, it has enough windows to let light in but not enough that one can easily spy or enter through them, and it is very close to the ground, meaning it’s convenient for one who has to step out often but a liability in the case of an invasion. Really,” she says with an exaggerated shrug, “I don’t know what I could use it for.”  
  
You understand the message easily, even though it is not stated out loud. This is your room to do with as you wish, provided you can give Cirucci some justification for why you need it.  
**  
[X] Make it a Marana workshop.**  Taking inspiration from Alphonse’s working place, set up your tools and tables here so you can use your free time to hone your practice of his art.  
**[ ] Make it an infirmary.**  Remembering Esmeralda’s office, set up an operating table, arrange the supplies you took from her, and turn this into your own medical space.  
**[ ] Make it a meditation space.**  Arranging your most personal belongings and claiming it as a private space, make it so that this is somewhere you can retreat from Las Noches, isolate yourself and find your center.


	6. Meet the Gang / Impation Investigations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was not written by me, but by Revlid as two omakes. All thanks to him for his characterization of the Fullbringers and Loly and Menoly.

**Meet the Gang**

 

Tsukishima was cool.  
  
That was what Moe admired about him. Whatever happened, he just wore that same thin smile. The one that said  _I know something you don't know, and it's coming up fast._  If it was Moe, he'd have been bragging from the rooftops, but Tsukishima always held back. Never did more than he needed to. It was what made him cool. As far as Moe was concerned, pretty much everything in this world came down to luck, but you could never tell where Tsukishima had placed his bet, or how far in he'd gone. Total poker face, and Moe wasn't even sure it was an act. He was like some kind of mastermind in a manga, like he was never 100% involved in whatever was going on. Watching Tsukishima was like watching a movie director in his foldy chair, maybe; a guy who was super involved in the action, nudging it back and forth and editing the footage, but never actually making himself  _part_  of it.  
  
He was wearing that same thin smile even now, arms pinned to his sides by what looked like 300 pounds of drooling dog. Super cool. Even in a situation like that, he had everything under control. Totally.  
  
"Riruka", he said, and if there was a slight tremor in the voice, a slight stiffness in the smile, it was probably just Moe's imagination. "Charmed though I am to-" a string of drool dribbled down onto his open mouth, and he coughed and spat before hissing " _get this thing off me_."  
  
"Kukkapuroooo!" The dog clambered off Tsukishima, one paw mashing carelessly into his groin, and bounded toward the two girls sat at the coffee table. Moe couldn't quite translate the words that came next. "Oh you're such a sweetie aren't you yes you are who's a good boy don't listen to that grumpy loser such a beautiful clever little baby with a fuzzy wuzzy belly that needs lots of rubbing and cuddling and filling with nummy treats and-" Riruka's head snapped up. "Giriko! Biscuit!"  
  
The tall man behind the counter rolled one eye and reached under the bar, retrieving a jar of bone-shaped biscuits before tossing one at Riruka. It bounced off her face, and Moe's survival instincts kicked in as he suppressed a snort.  
  
"Not for me, you gross old man! For Kukkapuro! The newest and second-cutest member of Xcution!"  
  
Next to him, Tsukishima rose like a furious stick-insect, brushing dog hair and slobber stains from his immaculate suit. He glanced at Moe, expressionless, and Moe looked away. He thought about whistling, like in those old movies, but figured it wouldn't work. He had a feeling he wouldn't be remembering this, pretty soon.  
  
Thankfully, Tsukishima's hands drifted away from his Bookmark as the bar door slammed open. Yukio stomped in, games console firmly clutched in one hand. Jackie followed behind, grabbing the door on the rebound and holding the door open behind her. She let go in disbelief as her eyes settled on the duo sat with Riruka, provoking a muffled curse from Ginjo as it swang back and smacked him in the nose.  
  
"La... Bête du Gévaudan?" she muttered, and Moe stared. Damn, she spoke European? That was hot.  
  
"Alright, Riruka, I got your call." Ginjo shot Jackie a look, rubbing his nose, and moved past her into the bar. The hot air from outside cut off as the open door closed again, and Moe thanked a bunch of gods for air conditioning. Wasn't it meant to be autumn? Riruka's guest seemed to relax, too, now that blinding sunlight wasn't streaming into the bar. At least it wasn't just him. Her nun-looking get-up must be just as boiling as his jacket.  
  
"Now, take it from the top. You were ranting about a cute moth, and a doctor, and a dog, and I couldn't make heads or tails of-" He caught sight of the girl sat at the table, watching him nervously, and paused. "Huh. Didn't know it was Día de los Muertos already." Moe frowned. Damn, European was less sexy when Ginjo did it.  
  
The story, as it came out, was a pretty bizarre one. Apparently the girl - Esmerelda, which Moe was pretty sure had to be a fake name since it was from a Disney movie, super suspicious - was actually a Hollow. Or, like, a half-Hollow? Someone's dad had weird tastes. Whatever. It explained the half-mask. Anyway, she was from the Hollow Planet or some shit, and there was a Shinigami King who was building an army of Hollows - Ginjo had started watching her real close about that point. And her friend, who was also Riruka's friend, although Tsukishima seemed to roll his eyes at that, said she'd be safer in the real world, so she sent her through a portal with a dog.  
  
And the dog was a half-Hollow, too, but he was also just a dog, as far as Moe could tell.  
  
"So basically", Riruka finished up. "We're keeping her."  
  
"Riruka. We can't just take in every stray and mutt-" Jackie started, and Riruka drew breath to start one of their customary screaming matches.  
  
"Well, I  _do_  have medical training. I was a doctor back h- in Hueco Mundo. So if you need any physical treatment - or spiritual treatment, I mean - I'm happy to pay my way." Esmerelda interrupted the brewing fight. Probably deliberately. Goddamn, was that some actual diplomacy? In Xcution? Just for that, Moe wouldn't crack a joke about getting physical treatment, because he was a fucking gentleman.  
  
"My special ability is, uh..." she fidgeted a little. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I can't be detected by spiritual senses. So you don't need to worry about, uh, disguising me or anything! Just so long as I can cover up my mask." It was true, Moe realized. She didn't even feel like a normal human, really. She just felt like... nothing much at all, sat there on the couch and talking. Freaky. "And it's not like I'm weak! I mean, I'm not the strongest around, but I was still a Hollow, so compared to humans- I mean, compared to  _most_  humans-"  
  
Ginjo cut her off. "Hey, hey, no need to justify yourself to us." He smiled, setting her at ease, and the others exchanged glances. Decision made, then. "We're a bunch of ragamuffins here. Now you've met Riruka and Giriko, obviously, but this is Jackie, I'm Ginjo, and this little genius is Yukio."  
  
For the first time since entering the room, Yukio glanced up - and paused, staring. Esmerelda smiled at him, warily. Yukio flushed red and turned back to his PSP, furiously tapping its buttons. Damn, what pissed him off so much?  
  
"And over there we've got Moe, who is no longer our newest member-" oh shit he was about to be a senpai "-and Tsukishima, who... really has seen better days. What's up, man, you trip over a bicycle?" Tsukishima just raised an eyebrow, which was super cool, but Esmerelda rushed to apologize, so she was probably fine too.  
  
"Hey, hey." Ginjo grinned, brushing aside the apologies on Tsukishima's behalf. "You're part of a family, now, Esme. A probational member, anyway. Our little gang looks out for each other, even when they're being little brats like Yukio here." Ginjo ruffled Yukio's hair, and Moe braced himself for an outburst. To his surprise, the youngest Fullbringer just shifted his PSP a little higher, to hide his face.  
  
"Yes, indeed, you can rest assured you've got a safe haven here while you work everything out." Ginjo strode toward the bar, swiping the cold bottle Giriko had already set there with a grateful nod. "So first off - I'm going to get you a business card. It's just how we operate in the land of the living. Now, in the meantime... and in the spirit of sharing... why don't you tell us a little more about this Aizen guy, huh?"  
  
In the sudden silence, Kuukapuro wandered to the door and started scratching. Riruka raised her hand.  
  
"Not it."

 

* * *

 

**Impatient Investigations**

  
  
"Alright, what the hell."  
  
Loly barged past Menoly, glaring around the empty infirmary as though the green-robed medic might be hiding in one of her own cupboards.  
  
"This is her job. It is literally her entire job. I do  _my_  job."  
  
"Our job, babe."  
  
"When Lord Aizen needs me to take minutes or bring him lunch or fetch Ichimaru or edit the security footage, I do that job and I'm  _there_  to do that job, because  _that's my job_. Her job isn't even that complicated."  
  
"Healing isn't easy, babe."  
  
"Okay, whatever, but like- she needs to  _be here_ , or she can't do her job. Like, in principle. If she's anywhere  _but here_ , she's useless. I mean, what if I was really badly hurt?"  
  
Menoly eyed Loly's arm, currently twisted and dangling from the elbow. The latter's attempt to "just shove it back in" hadn't gone well.  
  
"Sure, babe."  
  
"Ugh. Is she on her lunch break? Does she have a lunch break? Who gave her a lunch break?!"  
  
Menoly winced at the sounds coming from Loly's arm as her sister gestured wildly around the empty room. She had no idea whether Esmerelda had a lunch break, but there was no point trying to slow Loly down when she was in a mood like this. She probably ought to just... redirect her.  
  
"Babe, if she's not here, we just need to go find her, right?"  
  
"Yeah. Yeah! I'm going to track down that gossiping slacker, and I'm going to give her a piece of my mind!"  
  
And if we don't find her, thought Menoly, she'll probably be back here by the time we loop around. Wherever she is.  
  
The search hadn't gone well. Neither could remember what the medic-Hollow's spirit energy felt like. Weird, considering how much time they'd spent in that infirmary. Loly thought that was her special ability, something she'd overheard from one of the Reaper Lords.  
  
"That's... no, babe, no way. That's dumb. She's a medic Hollow, she's got to have a medical power, like healing spit or anesthetic or whatever."  
  
"Oh sure, healing spit! Like I'd have even  _let_  her spit on me! Don't be gross. Besides, Lord Aizen said it! I'm pretty sure. Something like that. You know I get distracted when he starts talking."  
  
Menoly knew. It was why the minutes of Espada meetings tended to be written as summaries rather than transcriptions. She was pretty sure Lord Aizen didn't read them, anyway. If she was as powerful as him, there was no way she'd spend time on that. It was part of why she'd stuck by Loly when she'd wrangled herself that weird secretary position. Like a bug hiding under a rock. Not that Loly seemed to notice it could roll over on the two of them at any time.  
  
It wasn't just the power that attracted Loly, anyway. It was the whole package. A Hollow with a Reaper fetish. Didn't that just sum up Loly's entire approach to life? Still, it seemed to be working out pretty well so far, and that was good enough for Menoly.  
  
"Oh, shut  _up_!"  
  
Loly's heeled jump-kick took the looming Arrancar in the side of the jaw, tearing his cheek and sending his face whipping into the wall. She alighted on one heel and span around. Picture perfect landing.  
  
"He didn't even say anything", Menoly observed.  
  
"Nothing useful, anyway." Loly snorted. "Just gabble gabble gabble. Ugh. So useless. Come on, those two beachballs'll be here to clean him up soon."  
  
Interrogating one of Szayelaporro's Fraccion had been Menoly's idea, on the basis that medicine and... whatever the Octava did probably weren't too different, right? It all involved vials and such. Unfortunately, Medazeppi (or whatever his name was) had just slurred something about "Roka Paramia" before trying to shove past Loly. That was a mistake.  _Espada_  who tried to shove past Loly got an earful, and Granz' Fraccion weren't Espada material. Or even Hollow material, considering the organic slurry currently drooling its way down the walls. He probably wouldn't remember much. And if he did, his boss wouldn't care.  
  
That was the neat thing about listening in to Espada meetings. You got to know their limits, their interests. Something that would give Barragan cause to kill you (e.g. briefly making eye contact) wouldn't bother Nnoitra at all, but if you didn't know what Nnoitra's bugbears were, he was probably more dangerous just because he got off his ass on a regular basis. Loly seemed to file that kind of social arithmetic into the same mental drawers most people used for long division. She could  _do_  it, but why bother? Easier to just assume she was invincible.  
  
Szayel was a monster, sure. And he'd do worse than kill you. Hell, that was what he was doing right now to Yammy, apparently. But he mostly didn't care about people  _offending_  him, just  _interesting_  him. And so long as the two of them kept quiet about anything that might interest him  
  
 _one hollow vast insect writhing and scuttling_

_sliced in twain_

_each half drawn before a perfect gem_   


  
they'd be fine.  
  
Several violent outbursts later - and one near-miss when Menoly had dragged Loly away from a half-amused Leones, just before Grimmjow rounded the corner - the pair of them made their way back toward the infirmary. If nothing else, Menoly was pretty sure she could put together a sling out of bandages.  
  
Another Arrancar darted past them in the corridor, lugging a package of some kind. Menoly took a moment to recognise her as the Thunderwitch's new Fraccion: another vanity pick. She could have some kind of super-Resurreccion or useful power, Menoly supposed, but at the end of the day she barely felt stronger than a regular Gillian, sealed.  
  
"-and where does she get those dresses, anyway?"  
  
Ah, Loly had noticed her, too. Yeah, they were cute dresses, even if they weren't really her thing. Maybe she was an accessory, then?  
  
"Alright, what the  _hell_?"  
  
Ahead of her, Loly stormed through the infirmary's entrance. Esmerelda was still nowhere to be seen. More importantly, nor was any of her stuff. Shelves cleared of vials, drawers pulled out and emptied, scalpels and needles and balls of thread vanished.  
  
"She came back here and she didn't even handle my arm?! That bitch!"  
  
Menoly thought about raising the several problems with that, but didn't particularly want to deal with that can of worms.  
  
"I guess Yammy must have eaten her, before his fight."  
  
"What?" Loly span to glare at her through one eye. "No. No way! Nah, we'd have heard about it. And wasn't uh, what's his face, that slug loser who's always hanging out with those two weirdoes in the desert-"  
  
"Di Roy."  
  
"Whatever, yeah, he got stitched up by her. Way after. No way she got spiked by Yammy. Maybe..." her eye widened, panicked. "Maybe Lord Aizen called her up! To like, serve as his new personal assistant?! She's already moving in on my turf! I'll  _kill her_."  
  
Menoly caught her good arm on the way out the door.  
  
"Babe, why would Lord Aizen need some random girl with healing powers?"  
  
Loly tugged against her grip, but it was a half-hearted effort as she calmed down. Sometimes Menoly wondered if this was what normal people did. Just, in their heads, on their own.  
  
"Yeah, you're right. No way he'd replace me like that. I'm irreplaceable. Okay. Maybe she... maybe she ran off with Di Roy."  
  
"Since when did Esmerelda have any Fraccion for friends? No way."  
  
"Ugh. Maybe... yeah." Loly smirked. "Maybe Lord Cifer spirited her away to some secret little place for a rendezvouz. Seems like the guy to appreciate a medical mind. Candlelit dinner in the mortal world?"  
  
Menoly snorted, pleased that the conversation was moving away from the practicalities of seeking out Hueco Mundo's medic and inflicting bodily injury on her.  
  
"You really think anyone could just take a Garganta out of here without being noticed? Come on, they've gotta have this place locked down better than that."  
  
Eventually, binding her sister's arm up with strips of scavenged curtain and distracting her with a flask of something foul-smelling (that was how you could tell it was good), Menoly decided it was probably best to leave it alone. Loly would forget about Esmerelda until the next time she was injured. If the drunken, tired mumblings by her side were any indication, she already had. Maybe they'd stumble across the medic somewhere else in Las Noches. Maybe they wouldn't. Hueco Mundo was an endless desert, and Hollows got lost there all the time. Sometimes they even wanted to.  
  
Maybe someday they'd need to get lost, too.


	7. Throne

  
You study the room for a moment, thinking of how best to occupy its space. You can see where you would put a sewing table, and there a display case, and where you would have a loom… You really should get a loom, you will need to create some special threads, and… You nod to yourself and turn to Cirucci.  
  
You would like to make this place into a tailor’s workshop.  
  
“Oh?” She taps her chin. “What a marvellous idea. I won’t have to trek all the way to that damnable tailor to get new outfits. I approve of this plan.”  
  
You flash her a quick smile, and she turns to leave.  
  
“Come! We still have to carry the rest of the baggages and set up everything.”  
  
Like hell you are. Watching Cirucci pick up a bag of personal items and leap off towards the higher platforms, you walk up to the three scared Numeros and give Eduardo an encouraging look - he returns one of deep worry.  
  
“I don’t know how you manage to deal with these people so easily,” he says.  
  
You let out a silent chuckle. He seems to have a curse when it comes to dealing with the Diez Espada,  _whoever_  holds that number at the time. You try to reassure them - Cirucci will do them no harm. But she would greatly appreciate it if they went with Ren - you point to the bearded Arrancar still standing in the threshold and glaring daggers at you - and retrieved the rest of her personal items to be brought back here.  
  
You consider the time, and noticing that it will soon be time for a meal, you smile and clasp your hands, and tell them that as a compensation for their inconvenience, you will serve them cakes. That seems to baffle them slightly.  
  
“...thank you?” one of the Numeros whose name you don’t know, a gangly man with an insect-like mask, says. He looks to the others, and they sigh and nod. They would not refuse in any case, you know; when an Espada makes a polite request, Numeros treat it as an order. And, you suppose, being a Fraccion makes you an Espada’s voice.  
  
Food for thought.  
  
The Numeros and Ren are soon gone, and you start unpacking your own belongings. You take a few items of choice and carry them to what will become your tailor’s workshop. It is relatively unfurnished for now, but you’re already thinking of things you could borrow from Alphonse. In the meantime you divert some furniture from its original purpose; the sewing table is a thin square white frame, its edges worn round by the sands in which you found it. Some colorful curtains you never got to use in your bizarrely-proportioned bedroom will make a supply of fabric. You set your tools, a wardrobe, a shelf on which you dispose scissors and measuring instruments. Taking a thin white curtain, you infuse your hands with spiritual deftness and work quickly to unspool its fabric into a ball of thread for later use. Digging in your belongings, you retrieve the round, long-toothed skull of a Hollow that attacked you in the desert, and thrust a dozen of needles into it - steadier than a cup. Finally you go to the window, and take a moment to breathe, enjoying a minute of solitude. You look down on the vast sands below, the heart of Las Noches swallowing your horizon, the sun and blue sky so like the living world’s and yet so unlike it, cold and watchful, weatherless.  
  
The Numeros return after a while, and then again. The five of you work in a meditative quiet to arrange the Red Chamber according to Cirucci’s instructions. Even Cirucci has a hand in the work, as she trusts no one but herself to take care of her private apartments. Only you are allowed to join; you reserve a wooden wardrobe (an oddity in Hueco Mundo, likely retrieved from the living world somehow) and arrange your precious clothes (obtained in the same). When you look at it, it gives you a feeling of nostalgia. This simple piece of furniture and its contents are your one tie to the world of humans, from where you once came, and where Esmeralda now dwells. You resolve to visit her as soon as you can.  
  
When you lived in Cirucci’s fort, the few bags you took in your escape from Findor were always full. You never unpacked anything you didn’t need, because you didn’t feel like you belonged. It was always a temporary arrangement. You feared the day when you would have to leave, and claiming your narrow bedroom as a place of your own seemed presumptuous - tempting fate, even. Here, it’s different, and you marvel at the small possessions you had forgotten you’d owned. On a nightstand near the bed you place a graceful, fossilized bug, not unlike a beetle; an autotroph turned to stone by time and the desert. On a wall you hang a piece of black fabric adorned with mesmerizing red patterns, taken from a peculiar Gillian you once hunted. On a cupboard you place a tiny machine of metal with two arms ticking the seconds a way, a human clock.  
  
And on the wall opposite the bed, where Cirucci can think it’s an odd but pretty wall ornament, but where you can see it every morning and remember your regrets and your resolve to always be better than you once were, you hang the fragment of Hollow mask you retrieved from the Hunter’s sanctuary.  
  
“What’s this?” Cirucci chimes in, and you start. You turn unsure what to say about the mask, but she is looking at the clock. You blink. Your hands flutter as you explain it is a human device for keeping track of time-  
  
“Oh, a clock. I know what a clock is. I just didn’t know they made them this small today.”  
  
You nod. Modern humans don’t have much space to live in, you figure, so they desperately miniaturize their devices at the expense of elegance.  
  
“Well, we don’t have that problem,” Cirucci says with a frown. “A clock. I like the idea. But this is a tiny, sorry thing. I’ll have you fetch me a  _proper_ one, all right?”  
  
Of course. You fold your hands in your lap and look around the room. There is a creeping sensation on your spine, one that is both frightful and oddly pleasant. This is… A room. A room for two. It has a single bed for two person, and it has the furniture and very personal items (you look away from a pile of lace Cirucci is currently putting in her drawers) of two people mingled together. It is bizarre. It is frightening. A small part of you wants to run back into the desert and leave this terrifying room behind.  
  
It feels like… Commitment.  
  
You swallow, and accept that small part of you rather than shoving it down into the depths of your mind. You will always be scared of belonging, you will always be scared of ties, of being hurt again. But it doesn’t have to stop you. Because this room is also something you’d never thought you’d have. A new life.  
  
You realize you’ve been standing against the wall and staring at everything around you for a good minute now, and start again when you notice Cirucci is standing with her arms folded, smirking and looking at you. Watching you stare. Like some great predator amused at the fears and antics of the tiny cat it has adopted.  
  
“Is everything alright, love?”  
  
You nod quickly. It’s just… You’re not used to such changes happening so rapidly. You were barely in her fortress.  
  
“Nemo,” Cirucci says seriously, “it’s thanks to you that I am now out of this fortress, and making my new home here. I don’t want you to think I’ve forgotten that.”  
  
You shake your head. That’s nonsense. She always had the potential.  
  
“Take the compliment, dear,” Cirucci frowns. You blush, which makes her smirk again. “Well, do you have anything left to do?”  
  
You look around the room, then shake your head. All your affairs are in order. You will head out and help Ren and the Numeros-  
  
“They can take of the rest themselves. I gave them clear orders. And however grudging Ren’s service is, he will be conscientious.”  
  
Well… When are you supposed to head for Lord Aizen’s room for the official introduction?  
  
“Accounting for the travel time, a couple of hours,” I think.  
  
Well, you haven’t eaten in a while, so you’ll keep busy cooking a meal for everyone in the meantime.  
  
“That’s a great idea,” Cirucci says lifting an eyebrow, “but I’m not hungry yet. Are you?”  
  
You look up at her face and blink. You feel like the right answer is ‘no.’  
  
“We can eat later. After so much work, I want to enjoy resting in my new apartments for a while.”  
  
You blink.  
  
“Will you close the door, love?”  
  
Oh.  
  
You blush, and you do as she instructs.  


 

 

* * *

  
  
The walls of the corridor stretch up higher than Cirucci’s old Pillar Room, so tall the ceiling fades into darkness. They are grey stone, smooth and featureless without a single seam, a tomb for giants. The doors are of the same make, two immense slabs, like swords of stone thrust into the ground edge to edge.  
  
Cirucci pauses, and her shoulders shake slightly. She turns to you, chin lifted up, eyes imperious.  
  
“Do I look right?” She asks.  
  
You look at the thrills of her dress, the elegant patterns of black lines, the winglets at her back, the elegant hairpiece whose chains dangle next to her eyes, the purple tears below her eyes. You nod. She looks positively regal.  
  
“Good,” she says. “Let’s meet old friends and usurpers,” she says and turns, her slender arms pushing open the giant doors like they weigh nothing. You follow in her footsteps, a shadow at her back.  
  
It is like stepping into a bubble of molasses, the air denser and intoxicating, so many different signatures melding together into one overbearing scent. If you were not at her side, you would falter; but Cirucci’s reiatsu is like a shield, a second bubble that catches you both, and you stand firm, showing not one sign of weakness. You feel the musk of beasts, the brine of the sea, the copper bitterness of blood and so much more, layered upon one another, weaving into each other.  
  
And now that she has stepped into the room, her own power mixes into that heady fragrance, the sharp ozone smell of the storm about to break. From the shadowed stands they look on, eyes glinting with idle power.  
  
The Ninth is inscrutable as always, a slender figure with a frilled collar, his head entirely concealed by a very tall white mask. You wonder if such a strange shape can hide a human face.  
  
The Eighth, pink-haired and spectacled with a manic edge to all his expressions, perks up, eyes gleaming, and grants Cirucci a smiles and a playful bow. You know he means gratitude, and this terrifies you. It would have been better for Yammy to die.  
  
The Seventh, tall and dark-skinned and bald, a necklace of teeth contrasting with his preacher’s habit, looks down with a look of only mild interest, but tilts his head when he recognizes you. His book of lessons is in a drawer in Cirucci’s bedroom, and his booming voice still reverberates in the back of your head. One does not easily forget the words of an Espada.  
  
The Sixth, blue-haired and green-eyed and with always something of the feline’s lean hunger to his features, frowns. But then, that seems to be his default expression. He still wears the jacket you and Alphonse worked on together, and it is still as fetching. He chuckles mirthlessly, and you think back to his lessons. You would have an answer for him now.  
  
The Fifth with his long straight black hair, pale skin and eye-patch and this outrageous round headpiece of his, narrows his eyes in distaste at your entrance. You do not look at him for more than a moment. You can still taste the tide of phantom blood on your tongue, remember the wandering moon crossing the sands, the death of hundreds. You have no regrets.  
  
The Fourth, white as death but for his black hair and green eyes and the painted tear-trails on his cheeks, shows no more reaction at your entrance than he does to anything else. Here of all places, the overwhelming spiritual energy circles his emptiness like a drain, making it feel more distant, less oppressive.  
  
The Third, the only other woman among the Espada, blond and tan and her lower face masked by the tallest collar you’ve ever since, looks directly at Cirucci. She allows her a nod, her expression cold. You do not know if it means approval. Likely it is only blank acknowledgement. The three Fraccions behind her are whispering in each other’s ears.  
  
The Second scoffs, old grizzled man that he is, heavy and scarred by age and war but still a crown-mask of white bone on his brow. His eyes pass briefly over you, and you know that he does not recognize you, no more than any other time you have come before him. He studies Cirucci, and she looks back, offering him a curtsey with the thinnest edge of mocking. There is a depth of history between them you fail to grasp.  
  
Then Ggio Vega leans down, whispering into the ear of his King, and Barragan looks at you again, puzzled. You feel a shiver going down your spine, and you bow more deeply than Cirucci did. You know the loss of Findor hangs between you, but his former master elects not to care. His eyes lift away from you, towards the throne.  
  
The First, handsome with wavy brown hair and a youthful face… The First just gives you both a smile, earnest if edged by weariness. His childlike Fraccion stirs behind him, spouting words too fast and distant for you to understand them.  
  
They all surround the room from these stair-like stands, stone benches that too stretch too high for reason, fading into darkness. They are on each side of you, some surrounded by their Fraccions, some not. You look at them all, and only then do you look ahead.  
  
The blind man stands at an angle, his eyes cast to the ground. You see the sharp lines of his profile, the long dreads of his hair hanging like prayer beads. His ear is towards you. You look at him and you know in your bones that he can hear everything that makes you who you are. He can hear your heart beating and your muscles tensing or relaxing and your breath going in and out and your reiatsu waxing and waning and Polilla raking against her sheathe and the creases in your clothes.  
  
You fear he can hear your soul.  
  
The grinning fox is leaning against the wall ahead, arms folded in his wide sleeves. He is not looking at you either; there is someone you do not recognize next to him, a youthful, androgynous Arrancar with sleeves so long they hang from their hands and hide them, a small jawbone hanging from their hair. The two of them chatter in low voices, the Arrancar on occasion stopping to giggle, the fox always smiling.  
  
There is a wall dozens of feet high, and at the top of that wall is a throne. The throne is bare white stone, unadorned. Kings have ornate thrones, for their rule always is cause for rebellion, and they must remind mortals of their worldly power to cow such stubborn wills. God have the most beautiful of thrones, for gods are creations born of the minds of men, and so they assert power in ways men can understand; their supremacy must be spoken aloud in their garb and their scepters and their palaces, for all wealth and glory and adoration is theirs.  
  
The Lord of Las Noches has a throne of bare white stone, and a garb of plain white cloth. His power needs no assertion. A rebellious hand may no more reach him than it might reach the skies.  
  
He smiles, and this smiles is for none of his servants. His smile is to himself; his smile is the pleasure of simply knowing that He is all, and this world moves at his command.  
  
“Welcome back, Cirucci Thunderwitch,” Aizen speaks softly.  


 

 

* * *

  
  
Cirucci falls to her knees, and you follow instinctively. His smile is as permanent and unreadable as ever.  
  
“It is my pleasure to welcome back among the Espada, Thunder Witch. To know that one of my first servants, reborn long before the god-stone came into our hands, could defeat one born of its awesome power, fills us with wonder.”  
  
“My Lord Aizen,” Cirucci says, her voice hasty and breathless, “I set out to prove that determination and cunning could overcome the sheer power of artificial creations. As you sought me out in the first place, I never meant to disparage your own work in creating new Arrancars. Only to show that the first ones you chose-”  
  
“Of course,” Aizen smirks. “Such devotion is to your credit, Cirucci. I am happy to welcome you back into our ranks, and have no qualms about you defeating Yammy to prove your power.”  
  
Your eyes flick up to Ulquiorra’s face, but it is expressionless. He was closer to Yammy than anyone else, but whether he feels Aizen’s words are truth or lies, he does not show.  
  
“Of course, this brings an interesting question to the Espada.”  
  
“Lord Aizen?” Cirucci says, politely puzzled, her right hand clasped against her chest.  
  
“Please, give welcome to the latest of your brothers, Luppi Antenor.” Lord Aizen waves his hand, and the youthful Arrancar smiles and steps away from Gin. He makes a mock bow to the assembly of Espadas, some of whom scoff at him, some of whom pay him no mind.  
  
“Luppi took a long time to be born,” Aizen says in an amused tone, “but he finally came to us only a few days ago. I expect great things from him, and his reiatsu is such that he might claim a rank among the Espada.”  
  
Cirucci’s eyes narrow in suspicion, but Luppi answers her look only with another teasing bow.  
  
You look at the other Arrancars, trying to assess their reactions. Most of them do not seem to care. Only the Third - looking warily at Luppi - and the Ninth - staring at both Cirucci and the newcomer with an intent you cannot discern for not seeing his eyes - seem interested in this development.  
  
“However,” Aizen says - his voice is eerily smooth, soft and uncaring - “Having lost one of my prized assets, I do not wish for battle to take my newest Espada so soon. Cirucci, Luppi - I forbid you from fighting each other for a seat among the Espada.”  
  
“Of course, my lord,” the new Arrancar says, smiling and bowing, their voice slightly too high in pitch, never managing to shed an edge of sarcasm even when talking to the lords of lords.  
  
“Of course, my lord,” Cirucci says, bowing respectfully, her tone one of perfect acknowledgement, without a hint of upset, even though so close to her you can feel the shifting of her reiatsu in anger and concern.  
  
“Now, as you all know,” Aizen continues, “war is coming.”  
  
This draws everyone’s attentions, the feuds of Espadas and those who want to belong to them fading in this one vital concern.  
  
“Preparations are almost complete, and we will soon make our move. In the meantime, I have plans to discuss with the Espada. If you would please…”  
  
“All Fraccions are to leave the room at once,” the blind man says sharply. There is a mutter among the higher stands, looks exchanged between servants and masters and between each other. You look to Cirucci, and she returns you an instant’s smile, too fast for others to catch. Her hand touches your arm.  
  
“Go,” she says, and you nod and turn to leave.  
  
The other Fraccions talk among each other, small groups walking separately with you behind them, some whispering and some talking loudly, making you feel ill-at-ease. When the great stone doors snap shut behind you, you breathe in deep without thinking, the air outside their pressure so light as to be dizzying, like a valley-dweller climbing a mountaintop.  
  
(You don’t remember ever experiencing the mountain sickness as a Hollow. You try to chase after the thought, hoping for a memory of the forgotten time, but it eludes you again.)  
  
The others’ steps slow now that they are outside the room. Some stop, waiting until their masters come out. Others head to whatever hall of the fortress they have claimed as home.  
  
You stand there with your back to the door, feeling out of place and dumb, alone. You scan the corridors for others like you, but the only other Fraccion to be alone is the Fifth’s, the blond man with an eyepatch mimicking his Espada’s, and you dread to talk to him. The Primera’s Fraccion is not here, you realize to your surprise. Would she still be allowed in the room? Maybe the first of the Espada has special privileges.  
  
Then you feel a rush of air at your back and start as the doors open behind you, only a narrow opening, enough for the short and lithe Antenor to slip through and let them close behind him. You instinctively move out of his way, but he pauses to give you a dangerous smile.  
  
"I suppose I'm not an Espada either.  _Yet_." Long tendrils crawl on your back, and you find no answer. He tilts his head, and walks away.  
  
You shake your head and look at the corridor. You can’t just stand there like a maid waiting for orders. You are a Fraccion now. Maybe you should… Mingle? That seems like a terrible idea.  
  
**  
[ ] Wait quietly for Cirucci.  
[ ] Approach Barragan’s Fraccions. **Likely they resent you for Findor’s defeat, but maybe they also respect your victory.  
**[X] Approach Harribel’s Fraccions.**  They have less of the overbearing arrogance of other followers, but their demeanour is intimidating to say the least.  
**[ ] Approach Grimmjow’s Fraccions.**  They’re predators, as wild in cheer as they are dangerous if angered, but you have met them before.  
**[ ] Approach Luppi Antenor.**  You don't want to talk to him - he feels dangerous. On the other hand, he could be a threat to Cirucci.


	8. Godmothers

  
The Tres Bestias are intimidating.  
  
You’ve met them before, of course, while performing some menial duties as a Numero unworthy of note. They never paid you much mind, as you were no threat to them and they favored bickering with one another. It scared you at the time - three predators circling each other, throwing verbal bites at each other. You thought only their Espada kept them together.  
  
Now you understand better, you think. Cirucci, Alphonse and Esmeralda, knowingly or not, have taught you more about friendship, alliances, and how people act with each other when bound by such fragile ties as Hollows can build. This constant feuding is one way to build a bond with each other. A vitriolic form of alliance, but one that is ready to lash out against any who would threaten the whole.  
  
It doesn’t make them any less intimidating, really. But you breathe in, steel your spine, and approach them. You hear a stream of broken words, loud voices talking over one another in a scramble. Unlike the other Fraccions loitering around the door, however, they are not simply standing and waiting; they are sitting on the ground, throwing bones in the manner of dice. You approach, studying their game, wondering how it works; then they see you approaching, and stop to turn their faces to you.  
  
There’s Mila Rose, tall and strong with a long mane of hair, intimidatingly beautiful even as she gives you a dubious look. Sung-Sun, who has something in her features reminding you of Cirucci - the pallor, the touches of purple make-up under her eyes, the fragment of mask as a hairpiece in her hair, and the lofty, distant demeanor; but her green hair is straight and long, and her outfit much more covering, reminiscent of a snake. And there’s Apacci, the shortest of the lot, lithe and short-haired with a mask like a horn, who sizes you up as you approach, then gives a dismissive scoff.  
  
“Hey look,” says that last one, “here comes teacher’s pet.”  
  
You do not flinch at the comment; you bow in curtsey #8 (“polite deference to nominal peers who are nonetheless acknowledged as senior and servants of a greater master”), and that makes Sung-Sun smile.  
  
“Don’t be rude, Apacci. It is our pleasure to welcome you among the Fraccions, young one. What is your name?”  
  
You gesture quickly, spelling it out, which makes Sung-Sun chuckle.  
  
“How cute,” she says.  
  
“I’ve seen you around before, haven’t I?” says the amazonian beauty, and you incline your head. “Hm, you used to be an unbound Numero. Can’t have been serving Cirucci for long.”  
  
You nod, recounting the time - two months, give or take. But you have grown very attached to her in this time, and hope to show her the same loyalty you know the Bestias show to their mistress. That seems to mollify Mila Rose a little, and she gives you a smile.  
  
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure why she’d pick you of all people,” Apacci says haughtily. She grabs the bones with two hands, shaking them in her joined palms. “She’s the new Diez, people are gonna be gunning for her seat, and what’s you going to do about it? Tiny little Gillian.” She throws the dice carelessly, coming up with mismatched numbers. With a thrusted look she pushes a stack of bone-carved tokens towards the long-sleeved one, who chuckles at her victory.  
  
You humbly acknowledge that you are not the greatest of fighters, but you have resolve and dedication, and you hope that it will be enough. When Findor went against you-  
  
“Wait,” Mila Rose interrupts, “you’re the one who beat Findor?”  
  
You bow lightly. Luck and good tactics, really. You take no pride in it. But your mistress had ordered you to win, and so you had no choice.  
  
“I think I like her,” Mila Rose says openly. “Please, come join our game.” You blush graciously; you would never be so bold as to say such a comment out loud. You express great admiration for the Tres Bestias, who are known throughout Las Noches as powerful Fraccions with whom no one ought to pick a fight; you wish you were this strong. Then you sit cross-legged among them, turning their triangle into a perfect suare.  
  
“Well, it’s not your fault,” Apacci says with a shrug. “You’re only a Gillian, and with that big of a mask-” she taps one of your horns, and you refrain from flinching, “-your transformation probably didn’t go quite right.”  
  
“Oh, Apacci, don’t say such horrible things,” Sung-Sun says with a sigh. “Just give her the dice.”  
  
“I said it wasn’t her fault! And it’s a good thing, too! It shows even weaklings can climb the ranks! If there’s hope for her, there’s hope for us, and for...” She doesn’t finish her sentence. Groaning through gritted teeth, she gathers the bones and hands them to you. You look at them, unsure what they are supposed to mean or how their game works.  
  
Finally you surrender yourself to fate, and throw the handful of knucklebones into the empty space at the center of your square. They come up with a handful of marked dots, identical on each one, and Apacci whistles admiringly.  
  
“Good throw!” She says graciously, picking up the bones.  
  
You smile weakly. You’re not offended by her comments, you say. Everyone must live with the lot they’re dealt. Although you wish you had enough of a face to wear make-up as well as Sung-Sun does; she is very elegant.  
  
The snake-like Fraccion chuckles into her raised sleeve.  
  
“What a sweet little thing! Do not worry, you have plenty enough to make good work with. You should paint those lips, for a start - a striking ice blue, I think, would complement your mask and hair nicely. You already have a great start with these clothes of yours; Alphonse must work faster than he used to, if you already have a personal uniform ready on the day of your mistress’s anointment.”  
  
You blush again, bowing in a way that emphasizes the lines of your hakama. You are very glad to hear your uniform pleases her; you actually made it yourself.  
  
“Truly?” Sung-Sun picks up the bones, nesting them into her sleeve, shaking them for a long while. “Then I understand the value of such a Fraccion to the new Diez. I would ditch any of these two brutes here for a good tailor. No vanity pick indeed!”  
  
“Hey, what’s that!” Apacci shouts. “I’m not a brute! And who’ll keep your ass from getting kicked if I get ‘ditched,’ uh?”  
  
Sung-Sun chuckles into her sleeve again, deliberately not looking at Apacci as she throws the bones. “The shorter Arrancar fulminates and starts flailing her arms. Mila Rose must intervene with a sigh, putting one hand down on her head to keep her in place.  
  
“She won again,” the lioness says, looking sadly at the bones, each one coming up with the same number of dots. You look at the bones and wonder if there are stakes, if victory gives one of the Tres Bestias a true advantage over the others. But asking would reveal your lack of knowledge, which would be a weakness, and so you say nothing.  
  
Sung-Sun chuckles harder, which only makes Apacci angrier; for a moment you watch the two Arrancars flailing at each other until finally Mila Rose shoves Apacci away and Sung-Sun gathers the dice into her sleeve.  
  
“Listen, Nemo,” Mila Rose says in the silence before Sung-Sun throws again. “You look like a nice gal. But really, you shouldn’t approach strangers like that.”  
  
You look down humbly. You didn’t mean to offend-  
  
“It’s not that. It’s just, there are realities to being a Hollow, even an Arrancar, and a tiny little thing like you is going to get eaten alive hanging around Cirucci.”  
  
You blink and stare at her.  
  
“She’s ambitious, all right? You can see it in her eyes. She won’t be satisfied with being the Diez. She’ll fight her way up to a ceiling she can’t break, and get smacked down. And if you go along with her for that ride, you’ll get smacked down too.”  
  
You clasp your hand on your heart, straightening up. You have all confidence in Cirucci. You’ve seen her strength, her dedication, and her cunning. She won’t just throw her life away.  
  
And besides, it’s no better at the lowest rank, with all those hungry for her seat lurking in the shadows.  
  
Mila Rose nods sadly - then her eyes light up.  
  
“You know what? It doesn’t have to be this way. Harribel protects the weak. She’s a testament to how different Arrancars are from Hollows. We don’t have to be ruled by hunger and greed. If your mistress came to her and asked her, Harribel would protect her against those who want to take her down.”  
  
“Yeah, but that’s only the half of it,” Apacci scoffs, her eyes still fixated on the space between you all . Sung-Sun scored high the last three rounds, allowing her to play again, but this time her dice are a jumbled mess of numbers. Apacci grins as she picks up the bones, and Sung-Sun pretends not to care, reclining as she hides her mouth in her sleeve.. “Harribel protects the weak, but she doesn’t just enable greedy weaklings,” Apacci adds. “If Cirucci asks for her protection, Harribel won’t allow her to fight her way to the top. She’ll be stuck as the Ten forever.”  
  
“That sounds like a sane decision, however,” Sung-Sun chimes in. “Really, how high can Cirucci hope to climb? One does not simply pick a fight with the Noveno and Octava, and I highly doubt she has what it takes to challenge the Seven on up.”  
  
You assert that you have no knowledge of Cirucci’s plans and the workings of her mind. If she intends to challenge another Espada, surely you do not know. You are sure she would be wise enough to listen to such an offer.  
  
“Yes, an Espada’s favor is not easily thrown away,” Sung-Sun says with a smirk. “In fact, it reminds me of a story… Do you remember that human tale about the three fairy godmothers?”  
  
Apacci frowns as she picks her ear. “I think I know the Hollow version of that one?”  
  
“Pardon me?”  
  
“Yeah, you know. Gillian finally feasts himself on enough of his kind and start cocooning. Out of his robe comes a newborn Adjucha, and he finds three old ones looking over him. Because it amuses them, they each grant him a blessing, but then another one comes in after the others, laughs at them, and gives him a curse. I don’t remember how it ends.”  
  
“That is downright silly.”  
  
“Your face is silly!”  
  
The bickering disrupts Apacci’s attention; you can see her dice have come up all with the same number, but as the horned Fraccion starts yelling at Sung Sun the very composed, very serious woman makes a soft gesture of her hand, turning a dice upside down so it breaks Apacci’s throw. No one notices, and you have to repress a giggle at this.  
  
Mila Rose laughs out loud, but you’re not sure if it’s because she’s seen the cheat, or because you amuse her. “You know, that’s a fun idea! Yes, let’s say we’re the three fairies or the three Adjuchas, and we each grant you a blessing, because you’re a cute little thing who’s headed for bigger trouble than she can handle. My blessing is offering your mistress Harribel’s protection, if she is willing to put aside her ambition. What’s yours, Apacci?”  
  
The short one scratches the hair at the base of her fragment of mask. She looks dejected about her failed throw, and glad to focus on something else for a moment.  
  
“Hmm. If someone picks on you because you’re weak, you can come to me. I’ll kick their ass! But just once, got it?”  
  
You nod rapidly. You did not expect such a gift from the powerful Bestias, and express deep gratitude.  
  
“What about you, uh, Sung-Sun? Gonna say something or just chuckle some more?”  
  
The long-sleeved Arrancar laughs softly (which upsets Apacci again), and looks at you carefully. Before saying anything, she throws the bones again, and Apacci growls loudly as they come up all with the same number.  
  
“You fool!” Sung-Sun says loftily. “You’ve said it yourself, after the three blessings comes a curse from an evil spirit! If I grant poor Nemo a blessing, she is sure to receive a curse just as in the tale itself!”  
  
“Don’t be a jerk, Sung-Sun,” Mila Rose says folding her arms. “It’s not as this was really a fairy tale! Just give her a little something.”  
  
“If that is your wish, my leonine friend, then I shall. How is this?” She leans over towards you, her motions sinuous, and you barely keep yourself from stepping back in sudden fright. Her face is entirely too much like Cirucci’s. “If ever you feel too weak, if ever you feel like you do not have the strength or resolve or bloodthirst to face the threats on your way, come to me, and I will buy your soul.”  
  
“Sung-Sun!” Apacci shouts outraged.  
  
“I will teach you… The witch ways. You will find them rewarding, if painful, but I will expect hard work and service.”  
  
“Sung-Sun, you’re a dick,” Mila Rose says sternly.  
  
Sung-Sun bursts in high-pitched laughter. “There’s your blessing, deary! My make-up advice comes free of charge, however.”  
  
You bow deeply, expressing sincere thanks for the Fraccions’ gifts. Mila Rose waves it off, picks up the dice, and offers them to you. You shake them in your joined hands, then throw them into the empty space between the four of you; each bone comes up with different numbers, and you use Bow #17 (gracefully losing at a game, and being eager to see who wins). Mila Rose picks up the dice and throws them, getting three 4s. She wins that round, even though she doesn’t look like she cares about their game. It seems the Tres Bestias have forgotten their competition, throwing the dice out of instict, much more interested in you and your mistress than they are in their game. In a way it scares you; you do not like to be the center of attention.  
  
“Think nothing of it,” Mila Rose says. “It’s nice to have another woman on the Espada.”  
  
“And among Fraccions, too,” Apacci says with a sour look. “Lilynette is  _impossible_.”  
  
“Ain’t that the truth.”  
  
“This always struck me as strange,” Sung-Sun sighs. “There seems to be no reason why there’d be so few women among our Lord’s armies.  
  
You admit that it confuses you too. There seems to be no reason why there should more male Hollows than female ones. All are equally soul-hungry beasts made to devour each other, and Hueco Mundo has never had enough of a society to enforce gender norms. You idly ponder if perhaps it comes in the rebirth of Menos Grande; maybe when their soul gathers itself from Gillian scraps, they reform themselves, and affect whichever gender they wish, choosing male selves for reasons that elude you.  
  
But… No. You frown. As distant and fragmented as your human memories are, you are fairly sure you were always a girl.  
  
“Eh, I don’t care about this mystery stuff,” Apacci shrugs. “Things are the way they are.”  
  
“Where did Cirucci shack up, anyway?” Mila Rose asks. “I hope she left that dusty old fort behind.”  
  
You nod quickly, and begin to talk about the Red Chamber, when a rising tension in the air cuts you off. Reiatsu thickens in the corridor and you hear something like a wolf’s distant howl. You look to the great stone doors as they slowly open. Coyote Stark walks out, his slip of a girl in tow, and gives the gathered Fraccions a nod of acknowledgement before walking away.  
  
The rest of the Espada follow.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Cirucci and you walk through dark corridors, silence hanging heavy in the air. You look at your mistress, and find her reiatsu troubled. You can sense her deep pride and satisfaction at her triumph, her happiness at being once again part of the Espada’s war plans; but you also feel something darker, a kind of bitterness or disappointment.  
  
You clear your throat. You’d never ask Cirucci to go against Aizen’s orders, but…  
  
“Oh, don’t be silly,” she says. “This was just a show of power. Aizen wouldn’t forbid his Espada from discussing his plans with their best soldiers.”  
  
You’re very glad to know this.  
  
“I’m just… Still mulling it over. I don’t want to talk about it just yet.”  
  
You accept this, feeling only slightly hurt. You begin to ask if at least she enjoyed-  
  
You don’t feel him coming, and neither does Cirucci until the very last moment. She stops walking suddenly, snapping to face a linked corridor, and out of the shadow comes Luppi Antenor, smiling, hangs floating at his side, strangely boneless.  
  
Cirucci makes a ferocious smile.  
  
“Come to salivate over the one treat you can’t eat, Antenor?” She says, tilting her head suggestively.  
  
“Perish the thought!” Luppi says with exaggerated shock. “I would never think to remove you from your position. I know how  _hard_  you must have worked to reclaim it.”  
  
“It wasn’t so hard,” Cirucci scoffs. “I’d just never really tried before. Once I decided to, I just really put my mind to it, and it was over-” she snaps her fingers, “like that.”  
  
“Then I admire your strength, and reiterate my wish not to fight you.”  
  
Cirucci narrows her eyes.  
  
“Why are you here, Antenor? What do you  _really_ want?”  
  
“Come now. We both know neither of us is satisfied with this outcome.”  
  
“Really? I’m feeling more satisfied every minute,” she sneers.  
  
“Yes,” Luppi says mockingly, “I’m sure you’re quite satisfied being the Tenth, lowest of the ranks, with every upstart biting at your heels to take your place. Ironically, emboldened by a hope you gave them with your own victory, that the weak could become strong!”  
  
“Let them come. I will whip them into proper respect for their betters.”  
  
“Or,” Luppi says, sliding across the corridor - his movements disturb you; he seems to undulate, his back and arms moving in one fluid motion, as if there was not a sharp angle in all his body. You instinctively inch yourself closer to Cirucci and ahead of her making a shield of yourself. “Or you could have a higher seat, one secure from such fools. The Espada have their conflicts, yes - but I am given to understand they are less… Overt. And there would be fewer contenders regardless.”  
  
“What in God’s name are you talking about?” Cirucci frowns.  
  
Luppi’s eyes gleam with a mirthless, hungry shine. “I want to be an Espada. I am the equal of any of these fools. I don’t care about the rank, I don’t care about contenders. I  _like_  crushing idiots who underestimate me. Being Espada Diez would suit me just fine. I just won’t allow myself to be dismissed out of sight when the big boys - and girls, I suppose - are talking. I  _will_  be acknowledged.”  
  
“And yet,” Cirucci says darkly, “you have been forbidden to lay hand on the owner of that very tenth seat.”  
  
“Yes,” he says with a smirk, “which is why it would be perfect if you were to move up in the ranks, and I were to just… Gracefully slide into the now-empty seat you left behind.”  
  
There is a moment of silence. You relax slightly, sure now that Luppi is not going to attack here and now; but this physical dread is only replaced by a different kind of worry. Your eyes flick up to Cirucci’s face, where you see a storm of emotions play off one another.  
  
“For that to happen,” she says slowly, every word carefully enunciated, “one seat higher in the ranks would need to go empty.”  
  
“Quite so,” Luppi grins. Then he opens his arms wide, sleeves trailing at his fingertips. “But think about it. We are each worth an Espada. The Vasto Lorde are far beyond our power - they could squash us both flat in the same motion. But the others? Even if they are more powerful than either of us, the gap is small, so easily crossed. What are their chances against the two of us? Even accepting that we are each only worth the Tenth seat, for the sake of argument, do you really think the Novena could stand up to two Decima? Could the Octava? The Septima? With proper planning, preparation, a careful ambush, could even the Sexta withstand this?”  
  
His voice has a manic edge now, shining white teeth showing through his grin, eyes wild with glee. You can feel his pressure creeping over the corridor, thin tendrils covering ground and wall inch by inch; you can feel them take hold of your feet, rooting you in one place, slithering their way up your legs.  
  
And as you look at Cirucci, you feel these words reaching her. You feel the ambition and hope sparked in her breast. It scares you a little.  
  
“Bold talk from a newborn who never had to fight for a seat,” she says, but her heart is not in it.  
  
“I am not telling you to decide right now,” Luppi says, stepping back. Shadows shroud his lower half, but his teeth still shine. He makes a mock bow. “But think about it. Together, we could do great things. Once you are seated among the clouds, not just above the base earth, you will find your life much more comfortable. As for me… The base earth suits me just fine. I am, after all, a crawler.”  
  
And just like that, he’s gone. As soon as he walks off into the dark, you can’t follow him, his reiatsu eluding you, suppressed. The crawling shadow withdraws after him, leaving your legs free, and you gasp. Cirucci looks down at you, a shadow in her eyes.  
  
“What a slimy little thing he is,” she says with a thin, humorless smile. You nod.  
  
“Do you think…” She hesitates, looks at the empty corridor where he stood a moment ago. “I can’t trust him, I know that. He could betray me. He could use the very Espada we go against to conveniently remove me and take my seat. But knowing that, I could play against him. And if I can use this to my advantage…”  
  
She bites her lip. You step back slightly, saying nothing, carefully watching her.  
  
“He’s right. Tenth is not enough for me. It’s not just about safety from the Privarons, and other newborn like him that might come after me.” She stomps the ground, gritting her teeth. “I beat Yammy when he was as strong as the Septima! I deserve better than this! And with him, I could claim my rightful place.”  
  
You nod carefully, and her head snaps to you, her eyes piercing, hungry.  
  
“Don’t you agree?”  
  
Your throat feels dry. You swallow harshly, and think.  
  
 **  
[ ] You agree.  
[X] You disagree.**


End file.
